


The Hogwarts Book of Carols

by p1013



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 25 Days of Harry and Draco 2020, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Auror Harry Potter, Awesome Molly Weasley, Christmas, Draco Malfoy Smokes, Early Bird 25 Days of Harry and Draco 2020, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry Potter Knits, Letters, M/M, POV Alternating, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Ron can't bake, Slow Burn, Unspeakable Draco Malfoy, knitting as a metaphor for healing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:20:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 45,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27802951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/p1013/pseuds/p1013
Summary: 'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the place,Not even Kreacher was stirring, too snug in his space;The mantle was empty, not a stocking in sightAnd Harry had gone to bed for the night;He sat, unhappy, wrapped tight in his bedAs visions of loved ones danced in his head;Meanwhile at the Manor, Draco stood in the snowAnd smoked a cigarette, no light but its glow;Two men, more like boys, distant and sadWith only the lonely times that they had.When what to their wondering eyes did appear,But a future so bright, so distant and clearIt was just out of reach, a handsbreadth awayUnless they both made a choice on this dayTo take what they wanted, perhaps with a shoveBefore falling, falling, falling in love.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 419
Kudos: 258
Collections: 25 Days of Draco and Harry 2020





	1. Cover

**Author's Note:**

> This is an Advent fic with one new chapter posting every day until Christmas. The whole thing is written and ready to go, but if you'd rather subscribe and wait for it all to be posted, I will not hold it against you.
> 
> Part of the **25 Days of Draco and Harry** fest, hosted by the lovely slythindor100. You can find out more about the fest on [their blog](https://slythindor100.tumblr.com/tagged/25-days-of-drarry). I am thrilled that I got to participate this year.


	2. Blue Christmas

## I

## Blue Christmas

### 25 December 1998

* * *

Harry clutches the bag of presents against his chest, hoping that it will somehow ease the pounding of his heart. Standing in the entryway of 12 Grimmauld Place, staring at the door, he doesn't fully understand why he's terrified to step outside. December has been kind to London. It's unseasonably warm, though there's a strong wind blowing through the street. It rattles his windows, screaming in through the cracks between the glass and frames, and, not for the first time, he chides himself for not doing more to repair this ruined gift of a home.

He's ashamed of the way he feels about the building. He shouldn't hate it. It's all he has left of Sirius, after all, but Harry can't find the energy to do more than sweep the floor and straighten things on the dust-covered shelves, unwilling or unable to tackle the larger projects and the grief hidden within them. It's not fair to his godfather's memory or to the home itself. Its magic creaks as much as its floorboards, and with every step, he knows that the neglect is his own fault.

He has the time and the wherewithal to do at least a little something with it, but he's found himself unable to gather the energy to actually _do_ the things that need doing, choosing instead of lay down on the threadbare couch in the main parlour and stare at the water-spotted ceiling until night falls and he drags himself, inexplicably exhausted, to bed. It's making him miserable. It's making the _house_ miserable. Even with the strong wind outside, he thinks he'd be more welcome on the street than in his own home. It'd certainly be less cold.

Shaking off the morose mood he's found himself trapped in more and more often lately, Harry takes a deep breath and then reaches for the door. The bag in his arms crinkles as he steps outside, but the sound is drowned out by another gust of cool, dry wind. He shuts the door behind him, listens for the sound of the lock sliding into place, then steps onto the pavement.

It's dark and the streets are covered in an early evening gloom. Wind trickles down his neck, sneaking past the collar of his jacket to find its prickly way to his pulse and stealing the heat from his skin as it dances away. Shivering, he hunches his shoulders, trying to edge his collar higher to hold onto his lingering body warmth.

The air is heavy with the smell of wet tarmac, and fairy lights are hung across the street, anchored from the tall row of houses that line the road. He doesn't know when it rained, but its touch gilds the pavement with reflected light. The small lights dance in the wind, lifting and falling with each gust. The glass bulbs clink against each other, sounding like ice cracking, and Harry hopes that they don't break themselves apart against each other. He wonders if the falling glass would look like snow, then puts his head down, looking away.

He wishes he were less down about the whole season, but it's hard to feel joyful this year. He's always loved Christmas, or at least he has since he turned eleven and Hagrid swept into his life like an oversized, brown version of Father Christmas, bearing the greatest gift of Harry's life in his gloved hands. But with the remains of the War hanging over everything like smoke after cannon fire, Harry can't find much room for happiness among all of the tangled sorrow and anger he's still fighting to come to terms with, even seven months after the fact.

He thought the grief would eventually wash away. Like dust or blood, he thought time would slowly wear it down until there was nothing of it left. Instead, he's caught at the most inopportune times by it. It grabs him in its jaws and shakes him until his bones rattle. It pricks his eyes and leaves him sobbing into his pillow (he has to flip it to the other side to hide the wet spots his tears leave behind). Even something as simple as sitting in his back garden, watching the leaves change and fall to the ground, conjures up memories of the Forbidden Forest and his parents, and then Voldemort and — 

But tonight, London is filled with bright lights and laughter, happy families walking down the street, friendly faces smiling at Harry as they pass. Shouted "Happy Christmas"s escape on clouds of exhaled breath. Everything around him wants Harry to be joyous, begs him to participate in the warmth that always comes with this time of year, even among all of the rain and wind. He does his best to smile back, but he knows it looks forced. His heart hurts with it, but he keeps doing it, like he's picking at a scab on a wound that he can't quite let heal. And though he knows it won't always be like this, the sadness feels endless, unyielding and pernicious like cold wind under his collar.

In hindsight, he knows he shouldn't have been, but Harry was surprised when Ron invited him to the Burrow for Christmas Eve dinner. It was a tradition, spending Christmas with the Weasleys, but Harry thought it would be cancelled or postponed or limited to family only. He didn't think it would be extended to him, not when the Weasleys had so much of their own mourning to do. They didn't need his pain butting its way in. But Ron Floo called Harry one night in late November, his blue eyes shadowed but smiling, and asked when Harry was coming over for Christmas and what he was planning on getting everyone.

"Are you sure?" Harry choked out.

Ron laughed. "Mate, you're my brother. Of course I'm sure."

And that was the end of it. Harry rushed through his shopping, grabbing whatever seemed best (and most readily available) for everyone before shoddily wrapping everything, throwing it into a brown paper sack, and hoping that it would be enough to say _thank you_ and _I love you_ and _you are my family, now more than ever_.

He looks out at the light-strung street, at the people crowded together with love tying them to each other, and he gives into the pull in his navel, drawing him home

* * *

He stumbles a little when he lands on the doorstep of the Burrow, but there's no time for him to catch his balance because Molly's wrenching the door open before he can, her arms wide and face split into a huge grin. She pulls him into a warm hug, the bag of presents crushed between them without any semblance of care.

"Harry," she says into his neck, and he can hear the unshed tears caught in her voice. He doesn't remember her feeling so small. "Harry, my darling boy. Welcome, welcome." She pulls back and captures his face between her hands. "Come inside, love. Everyone else is already here, and dinner's just come out the oven."

She busses a kiss on his cheek, then drags him inside. A roar of voices crashes into him as he crosses the threshold, and the rest of the Weasleys rise from their sprawled places around the front room to gather around him. Someone takes his gifts, and then Ron smacks him on the back before throwing an arm across Harry's shoulders and dragging him towards the food-laden table.

"C'mon, Harry. You're just in time to eat, and Mum's made treacle tarts."

Everything is warm. It envelops him, makes it equally welcoming and too much. Ron's pressed against his side at the dinner table, Hermione across from them, Ginny pressed up against Harry's other side. When her hand settles on his thigh, he feels it like a brand, searing into his skin and making him grimace at the touch. He rests his hand over top of hers, then moves it away. Frowning, she lets him, but he can tell she's unsettled by it, uncertain.

They haven't really talked since May. He tries not to think about it, tries to lose that sense of time and distance in the same way he does the chores around his home. Out of sight, out of mind, and he's done everything he can to not see too much of Ginny. It's not that he hates her. If anything, it's that he loves her too much. Only, that's not quite right either. He _wants_ to love her too much, and every time he's face-to-face with her, he's reminded that he doesn't love her in the right way. He sees her, and he sees his family. Rather than the warmth and acceptance he sees between Ron and Hermione — a mix of love that carries the hint of playful desire in it, even among the wreckage left by mourning — Harry only feels the quiet certainty of friendship. She's a confidant. A _sister_. And therein lies the problem.

He doesn't know if it's the war that's sapped him of his carnal interest, but where he used to feel an ember of heat in his lower stomach whenever he saw Ginny, now that feeling is dead and cold. Instead, it's been replaced by something softer. It's the steady comfort and sense of ease that comes when someone has known him forever and sees him for himself. It's something he should want in a partner, but Harry doesn't… _want_ Ginny, no more than he wants Ron or Hermione.

It's not fair to Ginny. She hasn't done anything, and he can't figure out a way to talk to her about it. So rather than confront the problem head on, he lets it fester like this, like the weight of a hand no longer on his leg, like the weight of her eyes on him as he takes another bite of roasted potatoes and meat and studiously ignores her.

Harry helps Molly tidy up the dishes after they're all done eating, and he knows it's partially to avoid Ginny's pointed looks and downturned mouth, but it's also because he's calmed by Molly's presence when nothing else seems to help. There's a weight of life on her shoulders, but her spine doesn't sag and her legs don't buckle. Instead, she carries it with strength and grace, her ever-present smile warm and inviting. As she hands him another stack of plates to wash, Harry's painfully thankful for her presence in his life. He wonders if this is what having a mother feels like, and as she smiles at him, drying her hands on her apron, he thinks it might be.

"Thank you for coming, dear," she says as she starts drying dishes and sending them back to their cupboards. "When Ron told me you might not be coming this year, let me tell you! I wouldn't hear a word otherwise, and I am so happy that you were able to come."

He washes another dish and sets it next to the sink. As she picks it up, he stares resolutely at the sink and the other plates resting in the soap-clouded water. "Of course."

"I thought you might miss it this year," she says quietly. He hears the rustle of her towel against the ceramic of the plate, then the clink of it as she sets it down. "I imagine it's difficult spending time with us like this."

"No, of course not." He sets the plate back into the water and turns. "Why would you think that?"

"Because you…" She swallows and lets out a long breath. "Because we've all lost this year, and being here, now… I imagine it brings that all back."

Unable to look at the kindness shining from her face, Harry goes back to the dishes.

"You're always welcome here," she continues as he scrubs another plate. "You've always been welcome here. I know it's hard, these days, but that doesn't change that you're family."

Throat tight, he passes her a dish to dry, and she places her hand over his instead of taking the plate. It makes his heart hurt.

"Harry." She squeezes his hand, then takes the plate. "If you need anything, all you have to do is Floo."

"Of course," he chokes out, and he erases his reflection in the sink water by grabbing another plate, wondering if it's a ripple or tears he saw on his face.

* * *

They open presents, just like every other year. He can already tell that Molly's made him another jumper by the feel of the wrapped parcel in his hands. The paper crinkles as he picks it up, giving beneath his touch with the same comforting weight of wool. This year, the _H_ on the front is gold, the body ruby-red. It smells vaguely of lanolin and the cleansing spells Molly uses. He presses his nose to it, breathing in deep, and says a choked thank you.

He slides it on and watches as the rest of the family puts theirs on. It fits better than his first. He's not as skinny as before, and the construction isn't as rushed as the first time. He knows Molly starts her jumpers almost as soon as she finishes them, knitting year-round to finish everything in time for next year. She could use spells to speed it up, but the Christmas jumpers are special in a way her other knit objects aren't. As Harry rubs the cuff of his sweater between his thumb and forefinger, the ribbing pressed against the pad of his fingers reassuringly, he appreciates that she puts all of herself into their gifts, even if it takes longer.

They are a rainbow of color in the front room, everyone arrayed in a kaleidoscope of dyed wool. Just beyond the edge of the room, Harry can make out the bulk of Molly's knitting bag. It's normally overflowing with yarn, but its contents are wrapped around the bodies of her family instead. He wonders at the simple magic of it, taking long, twisting threads and turning them into something warm and solid. A physical manifestation of the love she feels for them all.

He nearly misses the unfinished sweater in the bag, its front covered with a half-finished _F_.

* * *

The next morning, a storm rushes across the west coast, but London only feels the after-effects of it. No snow, nothing more than a harsh wind that rips through the streets like fingers through paper. But it's heavy and wet, and when it slips through the window panes of Grimmauld Place, Harry can taste it on the back of his tongue. He holds Molly's jumper tight around his body, hands tucked into the sleeves to keep them safe from the cold, and he makes a decision.

His wand is warm against his palm when he's done and singing with magic, and the windows don't leak anymore. It's a simple thing, but it's a start. He wonders where he keeps the dust cloths.

* * *


	3. Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!

## II

## Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!

### 26 December 1998

* * *

It doesn't snow often in Wiltshire. The climate is too warm, the air too dry. But something got under his mother's skin, and with Draco and the house-elves' help, they conjured a light fall of flakes that dust the Manor grounds with a hint of white. Draco tilts his head up into it, shivering as the snow settles on his skin and melts, leaving tracks like tears down his face.

Draco doesn't have reason to be crying, though. He's home, rather than in prison like his father. His mother is safe, too, protected by Harry Potter's word and celebrity. Life could be significantly worse for one Mr Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater and current disgraced heir to the significantly decreased Malfoy fortune. But he still has his home and his money and his life. He still has his mother. And he still has the feel of snowflakes on his skin. 

Much like the cold, his freedom stings. It's a mild burn. Most days, he can ignore it. But when the night is dark, and he's wrapped in it, he can't help but want to gulp in giant breaths of too-sharp air, as if he can somehow draw that freedom deep into his body and hold it tight where no one can threaten to take it away from him again.

And it's all because of bloody Harry Potter.

Draco takes a drag off his cigarette and lets the smoke settle in his lungs as he thinks. He picked up the disgusting habit while he was being held by the Ministry, though he's done nothing to break it since his acquittal in July. The other short-term prisoners smoked, and Draco wanted something to keep his hands busy so he wouldn't tear his hair out or rip his nails from their beds while trying to dig through the stone walls of his cell. The first indrawn puff of smoke had left him coughing, deep and rough and painful, but since everything then was deep and rough and painful, it felt right, so he kept doing it.

Now, it's the ritual that calms him more than the nicotine. The careful inspection of rolled paper and tobacco, slipping the unlit cigarette between his lips, cupping his hand around the tip as he lights it—the only wordless, wandless spell he knows—and that first, grateful inhalation. Held breath, slow, measured exhale. And the repetition of fingers to mouth, then back to his side. He can smell the tobacco on his hands for hours later, a rich, heavy scent that he can't precisely describe but that he loves. It grounds him, that reminder of air and stone and escape.

He watches as the smoke curls among the snowflakes, watches as it fades into the dark, sparkling night sky, as if it were a cloud that he created and let loose. Stars wink back at him out of the darkness, not a single smudge of white to keep them hidden from his sight. He feels seen by them, as if they're eyes staring back at him with quiet uncertain judgement.

He should go inside. Even with his cloak and the warming charms woven into it, he's starting to feel the chill of the night. But he takes another cigarette from his silver case and lights it off the tip of the one he's nearly finished, and after Vanishing the old one, he takes another grateful drag from the fresh cigarette.

He wonders what Potter would think of him now, standing in the snow and slowly killing himself with Muggle vices. They didn't speak after Draco's trial, though they saw each other across the vast smallness of the courtroom. There hadn't been much for Potter to say about Draco's part in the end of things. He testified to Draco helping Potter and his friends escape from Malfoy Manor, to using Draco's wand, and Draco's own place in the line of ownership of the Elder Wand. Potter said he wouldn't have been able to defeat the Dark Lord without Draco, and he thought that was enough to excuse at least some of what Draco had done during the war, if not everything. The Wizengamot agreed with Potter.

Draco isn't so sure he does.

Inhale, hold, exhale. The lit end glows blood red in the night. His chest aches, and he presses his empty hand over where he knows the scars are. He has others that can't be seen, and he finds comfort in these ones that he can see and touch, even if they still hurt when it's too cold or if he moves too quickly. Another reminder of his past mistakes, a way to ground himself in the present and the hopeful future where that weight won't lay so heavy around his neck anymore.

It weighed heavy on him the day before. The Malfoy family was never one for exuberant celebrations, leaning more towards clean white, silver and gold, and silence. This year, though, that quiet had felt like stunned, subdued grief. Not his, since he knew whatever darker emotions he might feel were well-deserved, but his mother's, which was somehow worse. She folded her hands in her lap and looked into the fire as if Lucius might step from it in a flash of green light at any moment. Her hair, normally held back in a tight bun, was loose around her shoulders, though it did nothing to soften her face. Instead, it made her look haggard and worn, like a widow watching from the top of her cliffside house for a ship that would never appear on the horizon.

This was a choice she made, though, that they all made. Each and every moment, they chose to follow the Dark Lord, to try and accrue and consolidate power, even to the detriment of others. At first, Draco followed blindly, trusting his parents to know best. But then his sixth year ended with Dumbledore's body falling from the Astronomy Tower, and he began questioning everything he ever thought before then. By the time he saw Potter's swollen face in his front room, Draco had already made a different decision.

_I can't be sure_ , meant so much more in that moment than just his ability to identify Potter. Draco wasn't sure of anything then. He didn't know if he should trust his parents, if he should trust himself, or if he should trust Potter and his friends and whatever rebellion Dumbledore wanted for Draco before the choice was taken away. It wasn't until he was left with the sizzling agony of fire and Vince lost somewhere in the depths of it—and no time to think about trust at all—that Draco finally learned what it meant to be sure of something. That surety was captured in Potter's sweat-coated hand wrapped around Draco's own and the gut-twisting swirl of faith that he wouldn't let go, no matter what.

But Draco hates to witness his mother's pain, deserved as it might be. He loves her, even after everything, and she loved him enough to risk her life for the knowledge that he was safe inside the heavy walls of Hogwarts. But now she's as grey as those stone walls, and he wonders if she'll recover from the damage like the school has, though he expects it will be just as slow and uneven and full of work.

Taking a final drag on his cigarette, he crushes the ember out against the snow-covered ground. The paper darkens with wet, and he Vanishes it with a twist of his wrist and a smoke-tainted word. He shakes the thin coating of snow from his shoulders, then turns to walk back into the Manor, already wishing to be outside in the cold night air again.

* * *

He wishes his mother goodbye in the morning. Eyes bright with unshed tears, she takes his hands between hers and smiles at him unsteadily.

"Thank you for staying for Christmas, darling. It was good to see you."

"You, too, Mother." He wants to draw her hands up to his mouth, to press a comforting kiss against the paper-thin skin over her knuckles, but it wouldn't be decorous, so he squeezes them tightly instead. "I'll see you soon."

"Of course. Be safe."

One final tightening of hands, and then she lets him go. The light from the Floo makes her look sickly, and that's the last he sees of her, a too-pale, green-tinged face like a skull with cobweb hair tangled around it.

* * *

With living costs in London being what they are, Draco's flat is small and utilitarian. It has a kitchen with a hob and enough counter space for a breadbox and not much else, a bathroom with only a shower, corner sink, and loo, and a bedroom that he had to use expanding charms on to fit both his bed and dresser. The living room is the largest space. He's crammed a couch in there, along with a side table and an armchair, but there's not much space left after. He's thankful for the built-ins that bracket his fireplace, since there isn't room for any additional storage. Even though the space is tight, it has wide, open windows overlooking the southern side of his street, so light floods the room, even on cloudy days, and makes the whole place feel more spacious and inviting than it probably is.

He's kept the color scheme light, choosing to stick with warm whites for the walls and furniture, with small pops of yellow and the occasional teal. The darkest thing in the room is a heavy charcoal knit blanket over the back of the couch, but the wool seems to capture the light and turn it into luxurious heat, so he doesn't mind if it dims the room just a bit. On late nights when he can't sleep, he curls into its enveloping warmth with a cup of tea and looks out the window, watching cars drive up and down his street and clouds skitter through the sky. In the autumn, when it's clear and winter's chill hasn't yet taken root, he can hear children laughing from a park just barely visible through the gaps between the roofs.

It's also within walking distance of the Ministry. He could Floo there or make use of a nearby Apparition point, but he enjoys the burn in his legs as he strides down the pavement. There's just enough time for him to finish a cigarette before he arrives, so he's always clouded in smoke and the lingering scent of ash when he steps through the doors of the building.

It is a bit odd that he works there. He knows most people don't understand why he's even allowed in the building, much less employed there. After all, his family was rather prominent during the days of the War, and their trials were front page news for weeks before, during, and after. Draco thinks most people would have liked him to disappear into faded obscurity, and he has to admit that this is fairly close to it. 

That's how the Department prefers everything, they tell him. It makes it easier for him to slip past, noticed and not, before settling in his office. It's near the mailroom, so most people assume he's involved with the post. Sorting things for more important, more _pure_ , people in power. But the truth is that the Ministry needs experts in Dark magic and Death Eaters, and with Draco acquitted and desperate, they snatched him up with a bureaucratic efficiency that still has his ears ringing.

As soon as he shuts the door to his office, his ears pop and the bottom of his stomach falls through the floor. He hates the sensation, but it's how he's transported to the correct area of the building. His supervisors prefer that he be nearby in case anything particularly nasty comes in, and with all of the Dark magic and wizards still running loose in England, that's most of the time. Last week, he was tasked with disarming a jewelry box that ate the unsuspecting hands of whomever opened it. The week before that was a curse that purported to cure its caster of whatever malady they were afflicted with—the spellbook containing the spell changed its description depending on who was reading—before slowly siphoning the caster's magical core until it was completely drained and stored for the spell's creator. It didn't matter that the witch who'd written it died in the sixteenth century. It was still just as effective and deadly centuries later.

If he were in the mood to be honest with himself—and most days, he's not; there's a bit of comfort to be found in denial—Draco would admit that he loves it. It's all the mystery and challenge of the Vanishing Cabinet but without any of the shame and sleepless nights. He's good at it, and he's unraveling these things for a good cause, and much like the pain of his _Sectumsempra_ scars, it's a penance for his past.

Every once in a while, something with Potter's name on it will cross his desk. Potter isn't an Auror yet, though everyone in the Ministry canteen is convinced he will be, but he is still actively involved in hunting Dark wix throughout England. Many of his missives are routed to other departments, but sometimes the Unspeakables are brought in, and sometimes, they tap Draco for help. It's never anything that would bring him face-to-face with the Boy Who Lived, but it's enough to leave Draco a bit sick to his stomach, the sensation of running his fingers over Potter's scribbled name at the top of a memo much too similar to the heat of Fiendfyre.

There's another one of these memos waiting for Draco on his desk, and he settles into his chair before picking it up, letting his eyes linger on that simple, unassuming name before he moves onto reading the rest. Another Dark spell, it seems, only he's seen this one before in one of his father's dusty tomes back at the Manor. It'll be a simple matter to retrieve it and present it to his superiors, so he sits and stares at the memo for a long time, letting himself linger like smoke, like ash, like falling snow, before he leaves for the central Floo and a quick visit to his mother's empty home.

* * *


	4. (There's No Place Like) Home For The Holidays

## III

## (There's No Place Like) Home For The Holidays

### 18 December 1999

* * *

One of Harry's favourite things about Molly is her ability to take any amount of flour and sugar and various other ingredients in her kitchen and turn them into glorious, delicious, wonderful things. Biscuits, pies, cakes, bread, tarts, it doesn't matter. Whatever she puts into the oven comes out smelling like warm butter and caramelised sugar, and it makes Harry's mouth water every time.

Ron, unfortunately, is not quite as good.

"Fucking shite!" The biscuit tray clatters on the counter as Ron pulls his oven-mitted hands back. "That's the third bloody batch I've ruined."

 _Ruined_ is putting it nicely. The gingerbread men on the tray are more like charcoal blobs, their arms and legs melded into each other like some kind of awful creature that crawled up from the darkest recesses of the ocean to die on the beach. Smoke curls from the tray, and the whole thing smells like a very sweet forest fire.

"Maybe you should let your mum handle it," Harry offers hopefully. "She's always great at these."

Ron doesn't stomp his foot, but it's a near thing. "Absolutely not. I refuse to be defeated by these bastards." He glares at the tray, throws an oven mitt aside to grab his wand, and _Scourgifies_ the tray with prejudice. "Right. Where's that blasted bowl?"

Harry sighs, then takes the just cleaned mixing bowl from the sink and hands it to Ron. While he starts re-reading the recipe for the fourth time, Harry quickly finishes washing the utensils and other bowls that Ron's used in his futile attempt at making gingerbread.

As the kitchen quickly starts to smell again of butter and sugar and molasses, all being mixed together with a charmed beater, Harry dries his hands and slowly retreats from the oncoming carnage he knows is about to be unleashed. Ron curses quietly under his breath as he starts measuring the spices, and Harry gratefully walks into the front room where Molly and Ginny are seated by the fireplace. Molly's knitting needles are clicking away quietly, while Ginny flips idly through this month's edition of _Quidditch World Weekly_. She's featured on the cover, and as Harry watches, she waves at him from her broom before winking and flying away.

Harry settles on the couch and groans.

"Is he trying again, then?" Molly asks, looking up but still knitting away.

"Seems like."

Ginny sighs unhappily. "Great. Like the house didn't smell enough like burnt things."

"He'll get it eventually." Molly flips her piece around and starts the next row. "Now, Harry. What've you brought with you today?"

Flushing, Harry reaches for the small bag next to the couch and pulls out a very beleaguered looking… thing. "This," he says, holding it up with a wince.

It's supposed to be a scarf, much like the one that Molly's making. But where hers is all even rows and purposefully changing stripes of color, Harry's looks like it's been chewed on by a Crup. There are holes in the middle of it, ones that he absolutely did not put there, and the width has slowly but surely decreased, even though the stitches on the needles are the same count as when he started. Thirty-six loops of simple yarn, all unassuming monsters waiting for him to stab at them hopelessly with his needle and maybe make something better than a mess he's currently got.

"You're doing wonderfully," Molly says without a trace of irony. "Look at all of the progress you've made."

"Right. Progress." Harry picks up his right-hand needle and carefully slips it under the first stitch. Letting it go carefully, he pinches the yarn gently between his right forefinger and thumb, wraps it around the right needle, and pulls it through the loop on his left. He grabs the right needle, and slowly dragging the new stitch off, he pulls ever so slightly on the yarn to tighten it up. Then he breathes. 

One stitch done.

Molly finishes another row.

"Why did I think this was going to be relaxing?" he asks himself, though perhaps too loudly because Ginny barks out a laugh and Molly's quietly clicking needles stop.

"Where are you getting stuck, love?" she asks as she sets her scarf down and joins him on the couch.

"I'm not stuck," he says petulantly, slipping the needle through the next loop and drawing the yarn around and through again. He curses when he tries to slip the stitch off the left needle and instead, his new stitch falls. "Christ, bloody hell."

"Let me," Molly says, taking it from him carefully and picking up the dropped stitch like it's nothing. She quickly knits a row, occasionally flipping the loops as she goes, until they're all seated on her right needle, facing the same way, straight and even and tidy. "Let me see you knit the next one, dear, and we'll figure it out together."

Feeling a bit miffed and like a child who can certainly do this on his own, c'mon _Mum_ , Harry does as he's told. Slowly, methodically, he works his way across, Molly humming encouragement as he goes, until he slips the last of the thirty-six stitches onto his right needle with a barely repressed shout of triumph.

"Very good, dear." Molly takes his right hand and shifts the yarn around his fingers, helping him tuck it into his palm until he needs to wrap it around the needle again. "You'll want to watch your tension there, but you've been consistent with it for the last few rows. And I didn't see you make any yarn overs that time, which is brilliant. You keep going, and you'll be making jumpers in no time."

He wants to laugh, but he's too warm from her praise to do anything more than start the next row. She squeezes his right hand comfortingly, then moves back to her armchair and picks up her own work. As she starts confidently moving from one stitch to the next, Harry ducks his head and does his best to focus.

It was a lark at first, asking Molly to knit. He was visiting the Burrow, and they settled around the front room after dinner. While everyone else chatted comfortably, Molly sat with her knitting, smiling occasionally as conversation demanded, but she didn't speak. She was a sea of calm in the middle of a chaotic ocean, and Harry desperately wanted some of that for himself. So, he interrupted a rather heated talk—about whether the Holyhead Harpies were going to sign Ginny on or if Puddlemere United would—to ask Molly to show him how to knit.

"Of course," she said, clearly surprised and doing her best to not show it. "Let me grab you some needles and get you cast on."

That had turned into weekly teas and Floo calls for help, and Molly as calm and collected as ever through all of it. He felt as tangled as the yarn, but he was slowly coming loose, the knots inside of him falling into place in neat, even rows, all guided by her tender, competent hands.

The first thing he'd finished was a dishcloth. A simple square of poorly formed stitches that he sometimes uses to wipe down the counters. Kreacher hates it and tries to hide it away, but Harry always manages to find it again and place it on the corner of his countertop, waiting for whenever he needs something a bit uneven to help scrub away a mess. It's ugly and he loves it with perhaps more vehemence than he should.

He finishes another row, then another, falling into the feel of it, the steady back and forth of sliding the needle in, wrapping the yarn, pulling it through, slipping the stitch free. The quiet crackle of the fireplace overlaying the quiet clack of his needles hitting together, a slow and steady tempo to Molly's faster pace. It's soothing and easy after a while, and quickly broken by the sound of the fire alarm charm going off in the kitchen.

Molly sighs heavily and sets her knitting aside. "I'd best get him straightened out."

She disappears into the smoke slowly spilling out from the kitchen, her voice raised in a tone somewhere between scolding and hysterical laughter. Holding back a grin, Harry dips his head and goes back to his knitting, lip caught between his teeth as he focuses.

"You're getting pretty good at that," Ginny says from her seat across the room. When Harry glances up, she's still looking at her magazine.

"Thanks. Your mum's a good teacher."

"I could never sit still long enough to learn it. She tried to teach me before I left for school, but I got bored and gave it to the gnomes instead."

Harry laughs. "That can't have ended well."

"There's one of them that picked it up, actually. We find tiny scarves under the bushes sometimes. Makes me feel rather awful about chucking them over the garden wall as kids."

"I don't know, some of them seemed to like it. It must feel a bit like flying."

Ginny smiles down at her magazine, then turns the page. Thinking he's finished with the small talk, Harry ducks his head back down and curses quietly before picking up a dropped stitch. He checks that it's oriented the right way and then knits it.

"How've you been?" Ginny asks, and when Harry looks up, she's looking back at him, magazine forgotten in her lap. "I mean, I know you're fine and all, but… How're you doing?"

"I'm…" He tries to think of what to say. The yarn in his hand starts to stick as his palms begin to sweat. "I'm getting better. My Mind Healer says to take it a day at a time."

"And are you seeing anyone?"

"Ginny, c'mon now."

"What?" She sounds genuinely incredulous. "We broke up ages ago. You don't need to keep your love life a secret from me if you're worried about my sensibilities."

"That's not it."

"So you _are_ seeing someone, then."

"No." He looks back at his hands and knits a stitch angrily. "No, I'm not interested in dating right now."

Ginny scoffs. "That sounds like an excuse."

"It's not."

Except it kind of is. Harry hasn't been looking for anything or anyone. He's still a bit too bruised and sore after the war, and his position as a Junior Auror keeps him busy with paperwork and street patrols. Once he leaves the Ministry for the day, he doesn't have the energy to do much more than Floo home and fall onto the nearest cushioned flat surface. If it weren't for Kreacher, Harry might've starved at this rate, or been buried under a pile of his own dirty laundry.

There just isn't space for another person in his life right now. It's too cluttered up with all of Harry's own things and thoughts and feelings. He can't imagine another person slotting themselves into that disorganised puzzle as if they fit there. With how jumbled together everything is, he can't even tell if he's missing a piece at all.

And then there's the Malfoy problem.

Not that Malfoy's a _problem_ , exactly. He's just… Well, he's bloody _everywhere_ at the Ministry these days. Whenever Harry turns a corner, there's Malfoy. Sometimes he's holding a stack of envelopes. Other times, he's got forms spilling from his arms. Whenever Harry runs into him—and he means that literally; Harry seems incapable of not crashing into Malfoy when he turns a corner or hurries through a doorway without looking into the hall—Malfoy's ferrying parchment from one godforsaken corner of the Ministry to another. Harry knows he works in the mailroom—his office is right next to where Harry's owl prefers to roost—and he must be some kind of page with the way he's always darting from one place to another, but it's rather inconvenient that Harry can't seem to do anything to avoid the man except hole up in his own cubicle with his head held down so he doesn't catch a glint of silver-white hair moving through the Junior Auror offices.

It's bloody distracting. Harry spent the entire year after war ended not thinking about Malfoy at all, and now it's all he can do to _not_ think about him, or how fit he looks, how confident in his own skin he seems, how _happy_ he appears to be. There's something about it that sparks Harry's old obsession, that makes him want to trail after that flash of silver like a fish darting after a lure, teased and taunted until it's pulled to the surface and left gasping.

"Well, whenever you decide to put yourself out there again, I'm here if you need advice." Ginny turns another page in her magazine, mouth lifted in a quiet, smug smile. "I've not had any issues pulling."

"Christ, Ginny," Harry says on a choked laugh. "Believe me when I say that I do not want to know."

"It's in the papers if you change your mind," she says before going back to her article.

Harry laughs, then refocuses on his knitting. He's finished another three rows—no dropped stitches in sight, take _that_ you twisted, woolen monster—when Ron walks into the front room. He's got a smear of soot across his right cheek, and his face is flushed.

"Well, I think Mum's got it under control." He falls onto the couch next to Harry, bouncing as he falls back and closes his eyes. "We're on decorating duty."

"At least you can't burn icing."

"Don't tempt fate, Potter," Ginny says sharply. "He lit my electric hob on fire the last time he came over for tea."

"It wasn't my fault."

"It's _electric_ , Ronald. There is literally _no flame_."

They fall into bickering, and Harry lets the familiar sound of it roll over him as he continues blissfully knitting.

Harry has to assume that this is why Molly picked it up in the first place.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter comes with a recipe! You can make Ron's gingerbread cookies yourself, though I'm trusting you to not burn them.
> 
> https://sallysbakingaddiction.com/best-gingerbread-cookies/


	5. What Child Is This?

## IV

## What Child Is This?

### 31 December 1999

* * *

It's nearing midnight. Draco doesn't even need a clock or Tempus to confirm it. He can feel it in the shimmering, simmering magic that always comes at the New Year. Something about the transition of Old into New brings wild power bubbling up from the earth to coast through the world, untamed swirls of magic that Draco can taste, bitter on his tongue. It puts him on edge, reminds him a bit too much of Fiendfyre to be comfortable.

He only noticed it after he moved out of the Manor. Behind its thick, charmed stone walls, the magic of the New Year never managed to break through. But the walls of his flat are made of breeze block and plasterboard, and magic slips through it as easily as a knife through paper or a thief through an open window. Draco doesn't like the overly sensitised feel of it against his skin. It's too much, too close. Like pins and needles that never seem to end, or an injury too painful to be ignored or to acclimate to. Heavy spice on his tongue, like the burn of ginger and the bitterness of burnt sugar.

It's almost like the faded memory of the Dark Lord's call in his arm, and maybe that's why he's so afraid of it, this thing he can't see but only feel.

So far, his office at the Ministry is the only other place he's found where he can escape it. He puts it down to a mix of it being lost somewhere within the ever-changing maze of the building's rooms and hallways and the Department's inexplicable magic. Whatever the cause, it keeps him from needing to take an overly large dose of Dreamless to get through the night.

It also gives him ample opportunity to get through his paperwork. Things have slowed down over the last year, but Draco's still busy with Dark artefacts. There's a recently deactivated one sitting on his desk right now, a black box with no drawers or openings, but it sounds hollow when it's tapped with a knuckle or a wand, and sometimes, he thinks sees it closing when he catches it out of the corner of his eye. He wasn't able to figure out what it was meant to do, so he removed the Dark lingering around it and contained its power in a state similar to sleep. It'll get locked up with the rest of the artefacts that they haven't been able to do more than lock down, but Draco still has to write up which spells he used and how he neutralised it, and how it should be stored and with what protections. His notes go on for four pages, in triplicate, and he expects it will keep his mind busy until the new century rolls in.

He's nearly finished with his last form when there's a knock on his door. It startles him more than he'd like to admit. There's rarely anyone else in the Ministry this late, much less on a holiday evening, and almost no one comes down to where Draco's office's door is located. And no one sends post in the middle of the night.

"One moment," he says before neatly stacking his paperwork on the desk and casting a quick Disillusionment Charm over the whole thing. Now, if someone were to peek through the door to see what he's working on, they would just see a pile of unopened envelopes needing sorting, rather than the array of golden magical instruments, dark artefacts, and forms.

When he opens the door, he lets out a very slow breath that is not an annoyed sigh, as much as it might sound like one. "Auror Potter. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Hey Malfoy," Potter says before pushing his way into Draco's office. Draco leaves the door open to stop the magic of the room from sweeping the two of them out into the middle of wherever his office is really located, and trails after. "I sent off an owl three days ago to a field operative, and I still haven't received a response. You've always managed to find these damned things before, and I thought, if you were in, that you could look for me."

He turns hopeful green eyes to Draco, who isn't quite sure what to do other than stare at Potter blankly.

"If you're not busy, that is," Potter adds.

Draco finally casts a _Tempus_ , then frowns at the time in bright white letters hovering between him and Potter. "It's 11:37 in the evening, Potter."

"Yes."

"And you just thought you'd come down to see if I was in. To chase down a missing letter."

"When you put it like that, it sounds a bit ridiculous."

"It _is_ a bit ridiculous. It's nearly midnight on New Year's Eve. I imagine you have better things to be doing than digging through the refuse of the Ministry for a note."

Potter frowns, his cheeks suddenly stained deep red. "I had a thing."

"A thing."

"Yes." He snaps the word out like a whip, and Draco does his best to not let it hit anything vital. "I already told you I'm waiting to hear back from an operative. She should've reported back by now."

And now Draco understands the urgency. Whomever this operative is, Potter cares about her. Why else would he be here this late at night, knocking on Draco's door? With a sigh, Draco goes to his desk, sits, and opens the front drawer. There's a small pile of official Ministry Post Office Message Retrieval forms tucked inside, something he keeps both to maintain his cover and because they're bloody useful.

"What was her name?"

"Imowen," Potter says. "Imowen Rockside." 

Draco frowns. "You're having me on."

"Look, I know it's an odd name, but Mo's a great girl and a fantastic Auror. I really need to know if my letter got lost or if she's in trouble."

"Okay." Draco deftly writes her name on the form, then folds it into the shape of a crane. "It will take a few minutes for this to go through everything. Step out of the way, Potter."

With a whispered spell, he blows on the crane so that it lifts from his hand and flaps its way to the door. It disappears down the hall, and Potter watches it with avid eyes.

"Now what?" he asks, looking back to Draco.

"We wait." Draco leans back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. "Pull up a chair, Potter."

Draco can't do any of his actual work with Potter cluttering up his office, so he picks up a magazine from his desk and starts leafing through it instead. It's a copy of last month's _Witch Weekly_ that somehow ended up in his office due to a mail mishap—he absolutely did _not_ order a copy of the Christmas issue with its spread of professional Quidditch players in holiday-themed undress—which he hopes Potter will politely ignore.

Potter is still standing in front of Draco's desk, and though Draco's skimming through an article about the latest cleaning charms for hardwood floors, the only thing he can focus on is the weight of Potter's eyes on him.

It's rather unfair that Potter has only gotten more attractive over the last year. Whatever gauntness he carried after the war is gone now, replaced by supple strength and easy agility. He moves like the predator he is, a great cat stalking its prey through the jungle night, all rolling ease and grace. It's distracting in the worst (best) ways, and Draco's been rather thankful that he only sees Potter's name from time to time, rather than the man himself.

But now he's standing in Draco's office, his crimson robes open and loose around his body. He's wearing black dress slacks underneath, held up by black leather suspenders that break the plane of his shirt, stretched taut over his shoulders before they disappear under the weight of his robes. His simple white shirt is tucked in and done up to almost the last button. The hollow of his throat is visible, and when Potter swallows, Draco's eyes traitorously glance at the movement of his Adam's apple, the jerky up and down of it simultaneously infuriating and tempting.

Someone in such simple clothes should not be this devastating.

"So, how long will it take?"

Draco sighs, going back to pretending to be staring at the housekeeping tips in the magazine rather than Potter in his office. "No idea, Potter. It depends on where, exactly, the letter ended up. If someone missorted it or it was sent to the wrong person—and I am highly doubtful that there's anyone else in the whole bloody world who shares that woman's name—then it will take longer. All you can do is be patient and quit looming over me. Please, for Merlin's sake, sit already."

Potter flops down into the small chair before Draco's desk, and it creaks disquietingly when Potter's full weight comes to rest in it. Draco raises an eyebrow, and Potter glares at him.

"It's muscle," he says.

"I'd expect nothing less."

"I've been working out more."

"Wonderful."

"I'm serious, Malfoy."

Draco fakes a yawn, then turns the page of his magazine. "As am I."

The room falls silent, and after a long moment, Potter snatches the magazine out of Draco's hands.

"Would you put that down?" he says before glancing at the page Draco had been reading, his eyes widening. "Oh. Well. Maybe don't."

It's not Draco's fault that he'd been flipping through the Quidditch article. He was interested in the new Seeker for Puddlemere, and he'd done an interview with the magazine. It wasn't anything salacious. Honestly, the pictures just happened to be there.

Still, he can feel his face flushing as Potter gets his composure back and turns the magazine sideways. "Lord, I don't remember Jenkins being this fit last year."

"That's because the Kestrels have a new trainer this season, and she's emphasised lifting rather than cardio. Now, give that back."

Potter yanks it away, grinning, then closes the magazine, rolls it up, and tucks it into his robe. "Not gonna happen, Malfoy. This is mine now."

"And whyever would you want my copy?"

"For the articles," Potter says with a wink. "Same reason as you."

Merlin, he's going to leap across his desk and finish what the Dark Lord couldn't. "I don't like your tone."

"Shocking. I'm absolutely stunned."

Draco glares.

"What do you get up to down here, anyway?" Potter continues, as if Draco isn't trying to kill him with just his eyes and narrowed brow. "Seems rather a waste, losing you down here with all the post."

"I didn't think you had any interest in what the Ministry did with me after my trial," Draco says, trying to keep his temper in check. "I like my job. I'm doing good work."

"Weren't you tops at Potions, though? And near to it in Charms and Transfigurations, if I remember. You didn't want to go back and get your N.E.W.T.S.? Do something else with yourself after… well, _after_."

"For someone who spent the majority of their childhood being hunted and nearly killed by a Dark wizard, you are remarkably idealistic."

"I…" Potter looks away. "I guess that's true. But you were acquitted. That should be enough."

"The Ministry offered me this job almost immediately after my trial. At the time, I didn't think I had many options." He softens his tone slightly when Potter flinches. "And I like the work I do here, even if it seems dull to you. It's certainly not as flashy as being an Auror, but I do things that matter, that make a difference. It gives me purpose, Potter, even if you don't see it."

"Well," Potter says before nodding sharply. "That's good then, I suppose."

"You suppose." Draco can't help the quiet laugh that escapes. "It's a very good thing indeed that I'm not interested in your approval."

Before Potter can reply, a sharp trilling comes from the hallway, then grows in volume as Draco's crane darts back into his office and starts flapping around his head.

"Salazar, come here, you beast," Draco says as he snatches it from the air. As he unfolds it, the wings stop beating until it's just another piece of paper, albeit one containing more than a bit of bad news. "Well, shit. It looks like you had reason to be worried. The owl that was sent to deliver your letter never returned."

Potter stands in a rush of red robes and is heading for the door before Draco's fully processed the missive. "Fuck. Okay. I'll get Robards." He pauses at the door frame, then smiles with shocking genuineness. "Thanks for your help, Malfoy."

"Of course," Draco says to Potter's retreating back. Once his footsteps have faded, Draco rushes to the door of his office and slams it shut, wincing as the room zips to its location in the Department of Mysteries. There had been more on the Retrieval form that he hadn't told Potter, information he needed to get to his superiors immediately.

Though it takes most of his concentration, he casts a Patronus.

With his own heightened anxiety and the magic of the New Year still swirling through the world, even if it's not touching him directly, the spell bursts into painful, glowing light. A huge dragon, its form limned in blue-white light like the midday sun refracted through ice. Its wings spread across the expanse of his office, wide and welcoming, and it opens its mouth on a soundless roar, its supernaturally sharp teeth glinting bright and cold. Draco wishes he could touch it, could feel the hard jut of its bones and the smooth expanse of its armoured flesh. But instead, he only speaks.

"Get Clark," he tells the spectral beast. "We've got a containment breach in Suffolk. He'll need to bring in Fitzgibbon, Lakely, and Vaughn. I'll be there in five minutes."

It roars again, then disappears through the floor, headed to presumably wherever Draco's supervisor is holed up. Meanwhile, Draco grabs his Unspeakable robes, shivering as their protections and wards snap into place and obscure his identity.

As Draco hurries through the hidden doorway tucked behind the bookcase on the far wall, he doesn't let himself think too hard about the memory he needs to draw the dragon out, a memory of flames and fingers around his hand, and his face pressed into a sweaty, familiar neck.

* * *


	6. Rocking Around The Christmas Tree

## V

## Rocking Around The Christmas Tree

### 22 December 2000

* * *

Harry really hates these Ministry shindigs. He's got a glass of cheap Prosecco in his hand, and though he's only had a few sips, he can already tell this night is going to end with him sloshed and a bit gassy. The dress robes that Ginny had somehow convinced him would be a good idea to wear are a bit too warm for the crowded ballroom, and he can feel sweat gathering in the hollow of his back, right where his shirt bunches into the waistband of his slacks. He'd love nothing more than to undo the collar of his robes to at least let the stodgy air circulate, but he's been here for less than an hour, and it seems in poor taste to start disrobing this early.

The wine is blessedly chilled, and it does a bit to ease his discomfort. It sparks on his tongue, sweet and bright, and he has to admit that for what is likely a bulk vintage, it's not half bad.

While the wine may be cheap, the ballroom looks like it's been gilded. Gold banners hang from the ceiling, dotted through with charmed lights that glow, warm and inviting, over the crowd below. It's not fully dark in the room—probably a nod to some kind of HR requirement to prevent workplace improprieties, though they should maybe not be handing out free alcohol if that's their intention with the lighting—and the fairy lights that are strung across the arched tops of the windows covering one wall shimmer like stars. There are more gold draperies along the walls, though these are topped with looping garlands of thick pine boughs and red holly berries.

There are round tables scattered around the edges of the room, each one topped with a white tablecloth and a gold runner. Christmas crackers rest across each of the serving plates, and a few partygoers have opened them, though most of them remain untouched. White candles of differing heights sit in the center of them, warming the faces of gossiping co-workers slowly working their way towards a good drunk.

The center banquet tables are covered with various bite-sized foods. Flaky pastry wrapped around succulent cuts of beef, miniature pumpkin pies, rich cheeses and cured meats with crisp crackers, canapes of all shapes and sizes, all waiting for party goers to drift over and help themselves to tiny morsels while they wait for the main meal.

Harry has only made it to the drinks table though. There's punch, which he ignored, and a range of wines, but, unfortunately, no hard liquor. As if that'll stop him from drinking enough to get through this evening.

There is a kernel of embarrassment nestled in his gut at his response to the whole thing. It's a lovely party, honestly, but he can't help but feel on display. People's eyes have been following him since he walked in, though only a handful of brave souls have tried to invade the corner where he's nestled himself. The potted plant he's stood next to has done the heavy lifting of keeping the crowds away, but there's only so much he can ask the narrow evergreen to do in the face of hero worship. He'd normally hole up with Hermione, who's reputation in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures has made it so that no one is willing to risk even the implication of crossing her. Hermione thinks it's funny most days, and she's more than happy to let Harry hide in her shadow if it'll keep him from literally finding a place to hide.

But tonight, she's at home with Ron and the rest of the Weasley's, celebrating the pair's recent engagement. If Harry'd had any say in the matter, he would be with them, knitting by the fire with Molly while the rest of the family swarmed around the happy couple like overly enthusiastic, red-headed puppies.

But no. Robards insisted that Harry attend the annual Christmas do, and when Harry protested, Robards _ordered_ him there instead. So now, Harry is hiding in a corner of a wide-open, dimly lit room with his new best friend, a dwarf Spruce.

He finishes his Prosecco in one long swallow, coughing a little as the bubbles catch in his throat on their way down. Feeling slightly better, he glances around the room before looking at the tree.

"Wish me luck, mate," he says quietly. "If I don't make it, tell my family I love them."

Laughing perhaps a bit hysterically, Harry squares his shoulder and ventures into the throng. The drinks table isn't too far from his hiding spot, and the line is relatively short, only two or three people waiting. But as he draws nearer, heads start turning. By the time he's standing in line, there are five people behind him, all looking at him pointedly.

Christ, he hates this. He thought all of the fawning would have faded by now. It's over two years since he defeated Voldemort, and he's finally started moving on from it. His Mind Healer is incredibly proud of his progress, and so's Harry. He's sleeping more nights than he isn't, he isn't having PTSD attacks on the job anymore, and his interpersonal relationships have steadied where they had been off-kilter immediately after the war. Hell, he'd even managed a date the other week—albeit a horrible one. He's falling his way into early adulthood, and damn it, he's doing a good job of it.

Someone taps his shoulder, and his back tightens. Turning, he looks down at a woman a few years older than him and many, many inches shorter. Her hair is dark, but shot through with a shock of silver at her front temple. Her eyes, wide and adoring, are already filling with tears.

"Mr Potter?" she says shakily. "My name is Roberta Windershins, and I just have to say—"

"Auror Potter," a familiar, sharp voice says at his elbow. "I need you to come with me immediately."

Harry looks up into the serious, placid face of Draco Malfoy. "You need what now?"

"I need you to come with me. It's related to your current investigation. There's no time to delay."

"Ah," Harry says, confused but going with it. "Of course. I do apologize. Auror business."

"Of course, of course," the woman says, her wide eyes going even wider. "Of course, Mr Potter."

Malfoy turns on his heel with military precision, then strides through the center of the ballroom. Still caught off-guard, Harry hurries after him with significantly less aplomb. As far as Harry's aware, he doesn't _have_ an active investigation right now. His most recent case closed up two days before; all that's left is the paperwork. And Robards hadn't given Harry anything before the party. He catches up as Malfoy steps through the wide doors leading from the ballroom to a long hallway. He glances right, towards the street entrance, then to the left, then jerks his head that way.

"I'm not a damned Crup," Harry says as he follows after.

"Just keep up, Potter," Malfoy tosses back, not even bothering to look to make sure that Harry's following him.

He pushes his way through a back set of doors, and they're suddenly overwhelmed with heat. They're in the venue hall's kitchens, a room filled with human and house-elf cooks, scurrying from one station to the next. A man that Harry assumes is the head chef sees them, and his brow furrows almost immediately.

"What are you two doing…" His voice trails off as he looks at Harry's forehead. "Oh. Of course. Just… Stay out of the way, if you can. Mr Potter. Sir."

"Will do!" Harry throws back before catching up with Malfoy again. He grabs at the man's elbow, slowing his forward momentum. "Where are you going? What's going on?"

Malfoy turns around and tucks his hands into his trouser pockets, smiling in a defiantly rackish way that Harry isn't sure he likes. Walking backwards for a moment, he says, "I'm going outside, Potter. You can do whatever you'd like."

"What?" Harry's mouth falls open as Malfoy pushes an outer door open with his back and flips him two fingers. "What the fuck do you… Blood hell."

It's dark outside, night having fallen completely sometime between when Harry arrived at the venue and now. With the loss of the sun, weak as it was, the temperature has dropped precipitously. It's absolutely fucking frigid out. When Harry breathes in, his lungs seize with the cold air. He coughs, and his breath dances in front of his face in thick, white clouds. 

Malfoy seems untouched by the weather. Even though he's only wearing a set of thin dress robes, the front open to show off his outfit, he doesn't shiver in the slightest. Harry can't even see goose pimples on the man's neck, which is bared slightly when he ducks his head as he rifles through the pockets of his robes. He's got a black shirt and waistcoat on, and as he leans back against the wall of the building, Harry realizes that the waistcoat is also embroidered in more black, the thread nearly invisible in the dim light shining out from the kitchen. A moment later, Malfoy pulls a silver case from an inner pocket, opens it, and pulls out a cigarette.

"You smoke?" Harry asks, faintly surprised.

Malfoy cocks an eyebrow at Harry, places the cigarette between his lips, and then lights it without a word. He takes a deep draw, the lit end flaring with his inhalation, then lets the smoke out in a slow, careful trickle. "Yes. Would you like one?"

Harry stammers for a moment, then shakes his head. Malfoy's only response is a shrug and another unconcerned drag on his cigarette.

Harry draws his robes around himself and casts a warming charm under his breath. It takes some of the sting out of the night air, but he's still shivering and confused. 

"What were you going on about in there?" Harry finally asks. "What do you need me for?"

"Nothing. I was helping you, you idiot. That woman was gearing herself up to have an emotional breakdown all over you, and while the panic that you were doing absolutely nothing to hide was the highlight of my evening, I thought you might appreciate not making an arse out of yourself at an official Ministry function."

"I wouldn't… I wasn't…" Harry purses his lips and breathes out. "Thank you. I guess."

Malfoy shrugs again. "It wasn't anything, Potter. Consider it a professional courtesy."

He tilts his head back so it rests against the brick wall. A few strands of his blond hair catch on the rough surface, and they glint like strands of gold in the light. With his eyes closed and cigarette smoke escaping from his mouth, Malfoy looks almost vulnerable. Like a man too tired for his own good, with no plans to find rest any time soon.

Harry takes a step back, then leans his shoulder against the wall. The door to the kitchen is between him and Malfoy. It's not much distance, but it's enough for Harry to observe the other man, something he hasn't done while Malfoy was so close and still so unaware.

His hair is longer than he wore it at school, and though he's still all cheekbones and patrician angles, it's mellowed somehow. His cheeks aren't quite as sunken, his eyes no longer darkened by shadows. Working in the Ministry Post Office clearly suits him. He seems less burdened, more comfortable in his own skin. Harry wouldn't ever call Malfoy soft, but he looks quiet, easier somehow. It turns his glass-sharp beauty into an enticement, something that Harry can't help but want to touch, if only to see whether he'll be cut by its edge or not.

He doesn't know when this attraction rooted itself in his mind. Somewhere between that quiet night in Malfoy's office—Harry still has that copy of _Witch Weekly_ somewhere in Grimmauld Place—and now, Malfoy went from a mild curiosity to a fascination. Harry's palms itch, and he curls his fingers into them slowly before tucking his hands into his pockets. 

"You look good," Harry says before he can stop himself. "I mean, you look nice. Your outfit. It's… nice. Good."

Malfoy rolls his head to look at Harry, that damned, elegant eyebrow still raised. "What flattery. However will I recover from this praise?"

"Prat."

"Dickhead." Malfoy grins, sharp and quick. He runs a hand over his waistcoat. "But thank you. I'm particularly fond of this one. It has temperature control charms woven into the fabric, which means it's cool in the summer and warm in the winter. Perfect for any occasion."

Harry shivers again and shrugs inside his robes to settle them more firmly around his body. "Well, if you want to tell me who your tailor is, I wouldn't mind one of my own. It's bloody freezing out here."

"You could always go back inside," Malfoy offers, but when Harry doesn't move, not even to shift his weight, Malfoy smiles again. "Or not."

"You're better company than a tree."

"What?"

"Nothing. How's the post?"

"Very papery. How's Auroring?"

"Exhausting."

"Not the answer I was expecting." Malfoy takes another drag. "I thought your lot had rounded up all of the worst dregs of society at this point. You should be sitting back on your coattails and absorbing all of the needless praise."

"The problem is that someone always comes in to fill the gap. We take one Dark witch or wizard out of the equation, and someone else steps in. You think they'd figure it out."

"Speaking from experience," Malfoy says before stubbing his cigarette out, "they never were the most intelligent group of people. And on that bright note…" He stands and reaches for the door. "You should get out of here. If you go back inside, someone's bound to notice that I was full of shit."

"What about you?"

Malfoy shrugs. "People don't want to notice me, Potter. I'll get by."

"You could come with me." The eyebrow again. "Or not."

"Not tonight." He gives Harry a long, contemplative look. Harry can see the whirling cogs and machinery of Malfoy's mind working, figuring out some puzzle that Harry wasn't aware existed until this moment. "I'll take a rain check."

"Yeah." Harry scuffs his dress shoe against the pavement, watches as a bit of gravel peels away from the tarmac and tumbles down the alley. "I'll see you at work."

"Good night, Potter."

"Happy Christmas," Harry says, but the door's closing and Malfoy is already gone like cigarette smoke in cold air.

* * *


	7. Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas

## VI

## Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas

### 24 December 2001

* * *

It's nearly ten at night. The sky is empty of clouds, just dark and filled with crystalline stars. A park nearby is lit up with bright colors and a series of sculptures that look like Christmas baubles toss carelessly across the grass. They cast rings of color on the frost-covered ground, halos of red and blue and green and gold. It's beautiful in an overstated, Muggle way, and Draco can't stop his eyes from watching the lights shift from the slight wind racing through the park.

His apartment isn't decorated very much, just a handful of nods to the holiday. He's got a dwarf Spruce in the corner strung up with fairy lights and a handful of ornaments he'd taken from the Manor before his mother sold the place. There are a few other trinkets on his shelves—a silver stag, a card his mother sent from France, a battered copy of traditional Christmas stories that had been lost in the library—but very little else that would tell a visitor someone living here was celebrating the holiday.

Though there's a fire roaring and he's got a glass of Ogden's 21 in his hand, and a threadbare t-shirt and his favorite worn pair of joggers on, Draco has to admit that he's in a bit of a sulk. He didn't love the Manor. He didn't miss the memories that haunted the halls like ghosts. He certainly wasn't desperate to hear his ancestors sneering at him for his "life choices" or his "proclivities" as he walked from one room to another. It was a dismal place, filled with unhappiness as much as antiques, and his mother was right to sell it. All by herself in that great hulking place, with no one to talk to or to take care of or to take care of her. It wasn't right. She deserved better, and she'd found that with her sister in Bourgogne. The money from the sale hadn't hurt, either. His mother would never have to worry about anything for the rest of her life.

But she's in France, and Draco's in London, and it's Christmas Eve, his first one away from her, and he feels like a child with how much it hurts.

Cursing, he gets up from his couch, throwing his blanket around his shoulders as he stalks to the windows. Throwing one open, he slides through it and onto the small landing of the fire escape. He's got a tiny metal table with an ashtray and an even smaller stool, and he settles down for a petulant smoke.

As he lights his cigarette, he thinks, not for the first time, that he should quit. He's nearly there, down to just one or two cigarettes a day, but when he's feeling like this—like he's no older than he was when he saw Hogwarts for the first time and Potter refused his handshake— he needs them. Needs them in a way that should worry him but doesn't. Draco trusts that his will will be strong enough whenever he finally decides to quit completely, and in the meantime, he's not hurting anyone but himself.

As he burns his way through the tobacco and paper, an owl wings towards his balcony before landing on the railing nearby. Hooting quietly, it hops a bit closer before holding its leg out to Draco, who tucks the cigarette into the corner of his mouth so he can untie the letter. He recognizes the handwriting immediately, and though he doesn't mean to, he smiles.

Potter's taken to doing this over the last year, sending Draco little missives about nothing. Since there's no sign of the Ministry's letterhead (and it's Christmas Eve), Draco assumes this is more in the same vein.

He unfolds it carefully, then flattens the paper as he reads.

_I was making curry the other night and I started wondering who first looked at a coconut and thought "I'm going to milk that." Anyway, it was delicious. Remind me to give you the recipe when everyone's back._

_\- H_

Laughing, Draco tucks the note into his pocket, sets his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray, and ducks back inside to grab an owl treat and a small pad of paper.

Cigarette in the corner of his mouth again, his fingers numb from the night air, he writes back. 

_Perhaps it was the same man who looked at a raw oyster and thought "I must put that in my mouth." Cheers to our fearless ancestors who were willing to try anything once. See you in the new year, Potter. Try not to hurt yourself before then._

_\- D_

He ties the note to the owl's leg, gives it the treat and a quick scratch on its neck, and sends it back into the night. His cigarette is nearly finished, and he takes another out, not quite ready to go back inside.

His friendship with Potter is just about as odd as these little notes. It came about over the last year, a slow unraveling of past hurts and prejudices. Honestly, if Draco had known that all it took to secure Potter's friendship would be to save the man from his adoring public, he might've done it sooner. The early days were a bit bumpy—it's incredibly difficult to ignore grave bodily harm done to each other, especially when they both have the scars to prove it—but they've settled into this odd little whatever-it-is, one where Potter sends Draco weird notes in the middle of the night, and Draco sends his own back.

There's a pile of them in his desk. Not all of them, only the ones he wasn't willing to throw away because they were particularly funny or odd-ball or endearing. It's barely a third of what Potter's sent in the last year, but Draco knows the one in his pocket will be joining them once he goes back inside.

"Happy Christmas, Harry," he whispers into the quiet, knowing that he'd never risk using Potter's first name where he could hear it, but needing to say it now anyway.

That's the other side of this rusted coin. Where Potter's interactions have been nothing but friendly—kind smiles, saved seats in the canteen, occasional cups of coffee dropped off on Draco's desk in the mornings—Draco can't deny that what he feels is… Well, it's inconsequential what it is. It's just as uncomfortable as trying to dance while a half-step off beat. He trips and stumbles, hands grasping for something to hold him up, but all he comes back with are scraped palms and bruised knees, and Potter—oblivious, beautiful, untouchable—standing in the distance, moving through the steps with an easy grace that makes Draco ache.

He's an idiot for falling into this mess, but what can he do about it now? It snuck up on him, the damned thing, and wove itself into his being before he could do anything to stop it. If he were to try and remove it now, it would take more than it had put in, and he's not ready to leave anymore gaping holes in his heart, thank you kindly.

Shivering, he stubs his second cigarette out, then rubs his hands over his face before sliding back in through the window. He closes it with purpose, locking the latch with reddened fingers. Falling back onto the couch, he pulls the blanket up to his neck, knees tucked into his chest, and he stares at the fire until he falls asleep, Potter's note still tucked into his pocket.

* * *

When he wakes the next morning, it's with a groan. He's not old, but he's not as young as he used to be, and sleeping on his couch instead of in his bed does tend to lead to backaches and sore joints. He stands and stretches until something in his lower back gives way with a satisfying pop and a sudden ease of pain. Sighing, he shuffles into his kitchen, fingers in his pocket and touching the edge of Potter's folded note.

The kettle rattles merrily to him as he activates its warming charm, and the toaster—a Muggle device, rather than a magical one—does nothing other than startle him when his bread is done. He eats it while standing at the counter, waiting for his tea to finish steeping, and then Vanishes the crumbs before heading back into the front room with his piping hot tea in hand.

As he walks into the room, there's a swirl of green fire, and then his mother's face appears in the grate.

"Draco, darling." She smiles at him, her eyes bright as the flames. "Happy Christmas."

"Happy Christmas, Mother," he says as he hurries to the fire, careful to not spill his tea in his excitement. "I didn't think I'd be hearing from you this early."

She frowns. "It's past eleven. Whatever the time, I can step through for a few minutes, if you'd like."

"No, I don't…" He looks at his tea, then back to the fire. "Only if you want to. I know how much you hate getting ash on your clothes."

"It's Christmas," she says, her voice and face growing fainter as she moves away from the fire. "And I've got other clothes."

There's a loud whoosh and another swirl of green, and then his mother steps into his flat, her face split in an uncharacteristically warm smile. "I've missed you, Draco. Come here."

He sets down his tea, and then gives his mother a hug. She's shorter than him by a few inches, but as she places her hand on the back of his head and pulls his face into her neck, it feels like he's a child again, wrapped in his mother's arms after the Battle of Hogwarts and finally feeling like there might be hope in the world after all.

After a moment, she steps back and cups his face in her hands. "You're looking well."

"Thank you. I've been doing my best."

She glances at his clothes, her smile dimming slightly. "I do hope you dress better for company."

"I'm not usually caught while still in my sleep clothes. I can go change, if you'd like?"

"No, no. This is a quick trip only. Andromeda's grandson, Teddy, will be coming over later tonight and we need to get the house ready for him. There's a lot to do to prepare for a five-year-old."

"I can only imagine."

"If he's anything like you were as a child, we'll have to hide every flammable item in the house. You were always setting things alight before you learned to control your magic."

"Mother, please." He fights back a smile. "I'm sure it wasn't all that bad."

"Tell that to your Grandfather Abraxas's portrait. It cost a fortune to get it repaired, and he was never quite right after."

Laughing, Draco takes a step back. "Well, I don't want to keep you longer than you need. There are ancestral portraits depending on your protection."

"Before I go, I want to give you this." She reaches into her robes and takes out a small present. It's wrapped in silver paper with a green ribbon, and the tag has the Malfoy crest, the small snakes hissing quietly to the tune of _Oh, Come All Ye Faithful_. "It's Shrunk, but you should be able to fit it on the mantel or on one of your shelves."

"Thank you, Mother." He plucks the gift from her hands, then sets it on the arm of his sofa. "If you'll just give me a minute, I've got a present for you in my bedroom."

She nods as he shimmies past her—he really needs to consider finding a larger place or at least Expanding this one—to his bedroom and the small jewelry box on his dresser. A moment later, he presses it into her hands. "Open it when you get home. I'm sure you'll love it."

"Thank you, darling. You'll be coming for New Years?"

"If Andromeda will have me."

She scoffs. "Of course she'll have you. You're family. Now, I really do have to get back. It was so lovely to see you." She hugs him again, then kisses his cheek. "I'll see you at New Years."

"Goodbye, Mother," Draco says as she steps to the fire. His pot of Floo powder is nearby, and she takes a pinch with refined grace, throws it into the fire, and then whirls away to _Château Noir_.

As soon as the flames die down, Draco takes his tea and the present and sits. The ribbon comes open with hardly any struggle, and as Draco takes the lid off the box, he gasps quietly.

It's a miniature version of Malfoy Manor, down to every little detail. He casts _Engorgio_ until it's a bit bigger than the width of his two hands held together, and as he looks more carefully, he can make out albino peacocks strutting across the lawns, and lights flickering in the windows. With his eye pressed as close to the glass as he can get it, he sees that the gas lamps along the hallways are lit. Everything is exactly as he remembers it, everything.

And though he doesn't miss the Manor, not really, he can't help the way his throat tightens and his eyes grow damp.

There's just enough space on the mantel for the model, and he sits on his couch, drinking his tea and watching the lights flicker inside, until his cup is empty and his heart is full.

* * *


	8. Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer

## VII

## Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer

### 17 December 2002

* * *

"C'mon, Harry!" Teddy shouts. "Do it!"

Laughing, Harry gets his wand out. "All right, all right. Just make sure you stand back. It's rather impressive when I cast it."

Big eyes wide, Teddy takes an overly exaggerated step away from Harry, his hair turning pink with excitement. Harry, still grinning, steadies his stance, squares his shoulders, and doesn't have to work too hard to find a happy memory.

" _Expecto Patronum_."

Silver-white smoke erupts from his wand, almost immediately forming into the shape of a majestic stag. It gallops forward on its nimble feet, throwing its crown of antlers around as it snorts a spectral breath. Teddy squeals in delight, clapping his hands and jumping as Harry's Patronus does a wide loop around the yard, its feet breaking through the thin layer of snow but leaving no footprints behind.

Of course, that's exactly when Andromeda steps out of the house and straight into the path of the stag.

"Watch out!" Harry yells, though it does nothing to stop the woman from being startled enough to fall over. The stag stampedes through her, and though Harry knows a Patronus can't physically harm people, he also knows it's wildly unpleasant to have one go through you. With a curse, he banishes the spell, half-watching the stag disappear into a swirl of silver-blue sparks as he and Teddy hurry to Andromeda's side.

"Are you okay, Grandromeda?" Teddy asks, staring down into her pale face. "It didn't hurt you, did it?"

"No," she says a bit breathlessly, "but the ground did. Harry, dear, if you could help me up."

"Yeah, of course." Harry takes her hand and pulls, slow and steady, and then gets his other arm under hers, finally bringing her to her feet. She winces a bit as she does so, and Harry feels shame course through him, hot and insistent. "I'm so sorry about that, Andromeda. I didn't realize you were coming outside."

"No, it's fine, really." She squeezes his hand, then lets it drop. "I've seen the way you two play together. I should know better than to step into the fray without looking."

"Did you break Grandromeda?" Teddy asks, his hair turning blue at the tips.

"Not yet," Andromeda says with a laugh. "Now, come inside. We've got tea and biscuits."

"Thank you," Harry says as Teddy takes off, shrieking, "but I should probably get back to London. I've been here all day already."

"Teddy loves having you here, though," Andromeda says, smiling. "And I think Narcissa appreciates having an extra set of adult hands to help."

"He's a good kid." Harry smiles. "I'm the spoiled one, honestly."

"At least come in for some tea," she persists, and Harry can feel himself caving already. "Just one cup."

"Okay. But just one." He lets her lead the way, shutting the door behind him. "I really do have to get home soon."

He walks into the kitchen of _Château Noir_ where Teddy's already at the table, his coat hanging over the back of his chair, with a plate full of chocolate-coated biscuits in front of him, his milky tea set next to it. He dunks a cookie in, holds it for a moment, then pulls it out as the chocolate starts to melt just a bit. Narcissa, her back to him as she pours another cup of tea, frowns.

"A gentleman does not dunk his biscuits in his tea, Edward." She pours a dollop of milk into the cup, then passes it to Andromeda, who takes it with a quiet thanks.

Frowning, Teddy crams the biscuit into his mouth. "Sowwy," he says, crumbs flecking his plate.

"And he certainly doesn't talk with his mouth full. My word, what are they teaching you at that day school of yours?"

Teddy swallows, then starts talking at an eye-watering pace. "Games! We're playing a new version of tag that Ms Isabelle invented called 'Monster Hunters' and it's amazing. So, the person who's it, right? If they touch you on your _right_ arm, then you're a monster, but if they touch you on the _left_ , then you're a monster _hunter_. Now, monster hunters, they're allowed to either capture a monster or turn them back into a person, but if they turn them into a person, then they're on timeout for a whole minute before they can try to turn someone else back, and if they're in timeout and the person who's it touches them on the _right_ arm…"

"And there he goes again," Narcissa says in a tone so close to Malfoy's own sarcastic drawl that it startles a laugh from Harry.

"Sorry," he says, still chuckling. "You just sound like your son."

"He got his wit from my side of the family"—she glances at Harry with a sly smirk—"and his looks from his father's."

Harry chokes on his tea.

"I thought as much."

Coughing, he shakes his head. "No, just… Down the wrong pipe."

"Of course, Mr Potter. It would be impolite to assume. How is my son, by the way? I understand you two work together somewhat frequently."

"Yeah, we do," Harry says, throat a little scratchy. Earl Grey does not do good things to a man's lungs. "He's well, last I saw him. They're running him ragged at the Post Office, though. There's always buckets more mail during the holidays, and it's particularly bad this year."

"I was wondering why he hadn't written recently. If you see him, will you tell him to Floo call me?"

"Yeah, of course." Harry drinks his tea, rather than inhaling it. "I should see him at the annual Ministry Christmas party next week, if I don't see him before then."

"So, you two are friends?"

Harry can sense that this conversation might be going somewhere, but he isn't quite sure where that might be. "Yes," he says cautiously.

"That's wonderful to hear. Draco needs more friends his age. Other than Pansy and Greg, I don't believe he sees many people."

"He's got more friends than that," Harry protests. "He goes to the local with me and some of the other Aurors on Fridays, and there's a Wizarding trivia night at the Leaky that Hermione dragged him into about two months ago that he's a regular at now. His team actually beat hers last week, and I don't think I've seen her so mad in my life." Harry smiles. "Malfoy _loved_ it."

"Good friends, then," Narcissa says before taking a deep drink of tea. "I'm glad he's got someone looking out for him in London."

"He doesn't need someone to look out for him, though," Harry says, feeling slightly defensive on Malfoy's behalf. "He's doing fine on his own."

"That's also good to hear," she says with a smile, "but it's also nice to know that someone has his best interests at heart, and it certainly seems like you do."

"Harry!" Teddy shouts his name, clearly not for the first time, and draws his attention away from Narcissa. "Harry, were you listening? Do you want to play Monster Hunters? You can be the mastermind, and I'll be it, and Grandromeda and Grandma Narcissa can just be regular players, but I'll give them a head start because they're old."

Harry chokes back a laugh as Narcissa calmly sips her tea. "It's not nice to call people old, Ted," he says, still doing his best to keep from laughing.

"But they are. So're you, but you run faster than they do."

Andromeda chuckles from the table, then runs her hand through Teddy's now rainbow-hued hair. "I think you'll find that your Grandma Cissa and I can run much faster than you think, young man. But, unfortunately, Harry needs to be getting back to London."

"But Grandma!" Teddy whines, face crumpling in unhappiness. "He just got here."

_Five hours ago_ , Harry thinks kindly. "It's okay, Ted. I'll see you for Christmas, yeah? You won't believe how big the present you're getting is."

"How big?"

" _So_ big," Harry says as he walks over to kneel down in front of Teddy, "that I had to find the biggest box they sell in Diagon Alley, and then make it even _bigger_."

"Wow," Teddy says breathlessly. "Is it as big as a house?"

"A giant one," Harry agrees. The little boy's face splits into a grin, and he throws his arms around Harry's neck.

"Thank you, Harry!" he says, his hands sticky with chocolate where they touch Harry's neck. "You're the best."

"Can't be, kiddo. That's you."

Teddy laughs again and pulls away. Harry's sure there'll be streaks of chocolate on his collar when he checks it later, but it's worth it to see the joy in his godson's face. 

"Is it okay if I play monster hunters with Grandromeda and Grandma Narcissa without you?" Teddy asks, any remorse about Harry's departure washed away in the excitement of playing again.

"Go right ahead. That way we can all play together next time I see you."

"Okay!" Teddy hugs him again, then snatches a biscuit from the table, and takes off running towards the back door.

"Your coat, Edward!" Narcissa shouts down the hallway. 

A moment later, Teddy comes running back into the room, grabs the coat, shouts a quick "Sorry!" and bolts away again.

"The exuberance of youth," Andromeda says with a weary sigh. "I'd better recharge the warming charm on my cloak. Harry, it was lovely to see you, as always."

"Thank you for having me." He catches her in a quick hug. She stiffens a bit, still unused to his easy way with physical affection, but softens as her arms wrap around his waist. "I'll see you at Christmas."

"Please give Draco my love," Narcissa says as she holds out her hand to Harry. He takes it, squeezing it slightly between both of his. They don't hug. They're on better terms now than they were after the war, but it's still a work in progress.

Narcissa shows him to the fireplace, then leaves before he tosses the Floo powder in. He yells out for Grimmauld, making sure to enunciate properly—getting the wrong fireplace when you're traveling between countries can leave you scattered anywhere along the Floo lines between the two destinations, and Harry does _not_ want to end up in Amiens or Calais—and steps across the threshold, the bottom of his stomach left behind as he twists and swirls through green fire until he lands, unceremoniously, on his front parlour floor.

Grimmauld Place is, like always, quiet and empty. It's not nearly as creaky as it used to be. Harry's put a fair bit of his own magic and elbow grease into fixing the place up, so the windows don't rattle and the floorboards don't shift, but there's only so much he can do to lighten the gloom that seems to hang about the place.

Removing the house-elf heads had done the most good, if he's to be honest. But the bright paint on the walls has helped, too. He sanded and restained the dark woodwork and wainscotting from walnut to cherry, and it holds a bit more warmth than before. Colorful rugs and runners in rich jewel tones cover the wooden floors, their piles so thick, he can wiggle his toes in them.

But even with all of the changes, it's like the house itself knows that something is missing, and Harry can't help but feel it more acutely when he comes back from visiting Teddy, or being at the Burrow with the Weasleys, or from Ron and Hermione's little cottage. There aren't footsteps sounding when he arrives or the quiet sounds of someone else occupying a space. It's still and quiet, but in a way that feels like _waitin_ g rather than _rest_.

Harry sighs, then makes his way to the study. It's a small room with bookshelves on every wall and his desk, nestled beneath a window overlooking the street. There's a fireplace in the winter months—the house replaces it with a large potted plant when it's warmer—and its quiet crackle helps hide the overwhelming silence of Harry's home. Sitting at his desk, he looks out the window into the quickly darkening street, then grabs a small piece of parchment.

_Prat,_

_I saw your mum earlier. She says hi. You should probably send her a letter or give her a Floo call, if she's coming to me for your whereabouts. Teddy was blond today for a total of thirty-five minutes, so it looks like your visits are being noted. (He had black hair for two hours, not that it's a competition)._

Harry wants to write _It's nearly Christmas, and even though I have no reason to be, I'm lonely, and you were the first person I wanted to talk to about it._ but he figures that would be too much vulnerability to put on paper when it's not even dark out. So, instead, he finishes with

_Hope you weren't buried under post and lost to the world. If you were, though, I expect you'd haunt me at work. Either way, I'll see you Monday._

_\- H_

He rolls up the letter, then goes looking for his owl. As she flies off, the tiny bundle tied tight to her leg, Harry can't help but think his house would be a bit less empty if Malfoy were here, too.

* * *


	9. The Holly and the Ivy

## VIII

## The Holly and the Ivy

### 20 December 2002

* * *

There's a knock on his door, and as Draco looks up, startled, it opens.

"Hey, Malfoy," Potter says, his eyes on a piece of parchment he's holding rather than Draco's office, "I've got something I was hoping you could help me out with."

If he had the privacy to do it, Draco would curse. As it is, he's barely able to cast a wandless, wordless spell to disguise his work. He's gotten significantly better at it since Potter started making these unannounced visits three years ago, but it's still a bit of an adrenaline rush whenever he shows up.

Because Draco's been surprised.

Not for other reasons.

Get your mind out of the gutter.

Whatever the cause of Draco's suddenly increased heart rate, he's able to Disillusion the crime scene photos on his desk before Potter looks up from his paper.

"What've you got?" Draco says, gesturing for Harry to take a seat.

"That's the thing," Potter says as he sits in the chair before Draco's desk. It creaks, like it always does, when Potter leans back. "I don't know that I've got anything, other than a hunch. We've got a group of wix who are smuggling materials in and out of England. Nothing too awful, not yet, but what we've managed to capture has been either illicit or counterfeit."

"Sound fascinating. What, exactly, do you need me for?"

"You're my resident post expert," Potter says with a disarming smile before passing the parchment to Draco. "They've been filing import papers. Most of what they're declaring in the shipments is a lie, but the paperwork is good enough to fool most customs officers. I thought you might be able to get something from it that I'm not."

"Interesting," Draco says, inspecting the paper. At first glance, it's a standard customs declaration form. Nothing immediately reprehensible about the contents. There's a spelling error in the list of declared items, but the paperwork itself looks normal. When he holds the paper up to the light, though, he smiles.

"They've got the watermark wrong," he says confidently. Handing the paper back to Potter, Draco leans back in his chair as Potter repeats Draco's motions.

"How can you tell?"

"There should be a laurel pattern around the outermost edge. They don't have that. Wherever they're sourcing their paper from, it's probably someone with an outdated version of the watermark or they're using an older form and a Duplication spell. The change was only made about six or seven months ago, so I'm not surprised a criminal ring hasn't been able to update their hardware yet."

Harry looks at the paper again, then grins at Draco. "This is why I come to you for things, Malfoy. You sure you don't want to join the Aurors? I'll put in a good word for you, get you out of this musty office."

"I'm fine right where I am," Draco says, fighting back a smile. "What would the Post Office do without me?"

"If you're as helpful to them as you are to me, they'd be bloody well lost, I'm sure." He shakes his head, then stretches. "So, what're your plans for the holidays? Are you going to see your mum?"

"Not this year, no. She and Andromeda are going on a cruise around the Mediterranean for the next three weeks. I didn't exactly ask for details."

Potter frowns. "So, no plans, then."

"None whatsoever."

Potter's frown deepens, then brightens briefly before reaching into his robes. He pulls out a card, emblazoned with _Happy Christmas_ in looping, golden letters across a scene of pine boughs heavy with snow and dotted with red berries. A moment later, a cardinal flutters into the picture to settle on the branch. It pecks at the berries a handful of times, tilts its head, then leaps into the air, only for the scene to repeat.

"Here," Potter says, offering it as easily as he had the customs form. "This is for you."

"Well."

He isn't quite sure how to respond to something as banal as a Christmas card, but Draco takes it with only a second's hesitation. Unsure what to do with it now that it's in his hands, he goes to set it on his desk, though the motion is interrupted by Potter huffing out an annoyed breath.

"No, open it, you lummox."

"I would have eventually."

"Now. _Please_."

It's the _please_ that does it. Something about the tone of Potter's voice makes Draco open the card without any sign of hesitation, though his heart is galloping in his chest. There's not much inside the card, just a short note.

_Prat,_

_Thought you might like a card. This was the most Gryffindor-ish of the lot, so I knew I had to get it for you. I'm sure you hate it. Good thing you can't throw it away until New Years if you want to avoid looking like an arse!_

_Happy Christmas_

_\- H_

"Thank you," Draco says, surprised to find he means it. "This is very kind of you, Potter. I'm afraid I don't have one to give you in return."

"You can give it to me when we go to the Burrow."

Draco freezes. "When we go where?"

"The Burrow." Potter's expression is steadfast and unyielding. "I'd like you to come with me."

"To the Weasley's house. For Christmas."

"Yes. Friends shouldn't be alone on Christmas. And I already talked it over with Ron and Hermione, and they both would love for you to be there."

Draco swallows. "Are you… Would you come with me?"

"Of course I'll be there."

"No. No, I mean will you arrive with me? Together. I don't…"

It's stupid. He's known Weasley—Ron—for years now. They're even friendly, at least if there's enough liquor between the two of them to smooth the rough edges. Draco has spent more than one evening in the man's company and found it surprisingly bearable.

But the thought of stepping into the ancestral Weasley home, surrounded by so very many people he spent so very many years making fun of, while they all have so very many fists… Well, it makes him more than a little nervous.

"I mean… Yeah, if you need me to."

Draco nods, throat tight. "I think I do."

"Then I guess we'll meet at yours? Or mine, if you'd like that better. And then we'll go together."

"When?"

"Christmas morning. Around ten."

"Okay." Draco looks down at the card, the cardinal peering back up at him before flying away. "I'll see you Christmas morning, then."

"Cheer up, Malfoy," Potter says, placing his hand on the desk and bringing Draco's attention from the card to Potter's wide smile. "You'll love it, I promise."

Draco sincerely hopes so.

* * *


	10. God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen

## IX

## God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen

### 25 December 2002

* * *

Malfoy's flat is… Cozy would be the polite word for it. Cramped would be the more accurate one. When Harry pushes open the door, it barely clears the end of Malfoy's sofa. There's just enough space for Harry to get in and shut the door behind him, with a coat rack standing in the space between where the open door was and the wall.

"Malfoy?" Harry shouts, peering first into a small galley kitchen, then down a very short hallway with two doors on either side. "Malfoy, where are you?"

"Just another minute, Potter!" Malfoy's voice rings through the door, though Harry can't tell which one. "I'll be right out."

This feels like he's early to a first date. Harry doesn't like that it feels like he's early to a first date. It's Malfoy, for Christ's sake. He wouldn't be taking Malfoy out on a date. Malfoy's standards are higher than that, and Harry…

Merlin, what is he even thinking about this? He's just bringing a friend with him to Christmas. It's nothing serious. It's not dinner and a show.

Though now Harry's wondering what kind of restaurants Malfoy might like, or if he's even interested in the theatre. He's posh, he probably is. But would he be an opera man or would he like musicals more?

Shaking his head, Harry takes another step into the flat, angling for the tall windows on the far side of the room. The view outside isn't much to look at, but the light spilling into the small front room makes it feel warm and inviting. There's a charcoal grey blanket draped across the back of the couch, and when Harry runs his hand across it, it's soft and giving, like it gets a lot of use. There's a faint hint of cigarette smoke that lingers on his fingers, the same scent that seems to trail after Malfoy wherever he goes. Harry holds his hand to his face, breathing in, then drops it when he hears a door open.

"Well," Malfoy says, holding his arms out. "Do I look like someone you'd want to punch, or no?"

He's wearing a cable knit jumper in a cream wool that makes Harry's hands sweat. The front panel is covered in an interwoven honeycomb with twining vines and bobbles along the sides. It's a bit too big for Malfoy, but the extra fabric makes him look softer, more approachable. It makes him look like Harry could walk across the tiny space between them and slide his hands under the hem of that jumper so he could feel the captured warmth of Malfoy's skin underneath his palms.

The understated black trousers that make up the rest of Draco's outfit are almost not worth mentioning, except that they cradle his thighs like a lover, with a crease down the front that's so sharp, Harry thinks it might cut. The cuffs rest above the delicate arch of Draco's feet, hidden by thin, white socks.

Harry can't breathe.

"You look fine," he finally croaks out, praying that the flush he knows is covering his face is hard to make out against his darker skin.

"Are you sure?" Draco pulls the hem of the jumper away from his body, and Harry sees a flash of pale skin underneath. "This isn't too informal?"

"No." It's like he's swallowed glass. "You're perfect. You _look_ perfect. Now, let's go before we're late."

Draco settles the jumper back against his body, his hands coasting over the cables until they lay flat, then lets out a long breath. "Okay. I'll get my shoes, and then we can go."

Draco turns around to slide his feet into a pair of black loafers by the front door, and Harry takes the moment to adjust himself quickly in his trousers. Thankfully, the jumper he's wearing is much too long in the body—he knit it before he really knew about gauge swatches— so it hangs low over his waist, disguising anything he wasn't able to hide himself. Getting half-hard in Draco's front room was not how Harry planned on starting his Christmas.

"Right, shall we?" Draco asks before lighting the fireplace. He grabs a pinch of powder and throws it in. "You first."

"Scared, Malfoy?" Harry asks with a smile.

Draco scoffs. "You wish, Potter."

"The Burrow," Harry says before grabbing Draco's hand. His grey eyes widen, and then they're falling through the Floo, and everything's green and spinning, and Harry tastes smoke as he laughs.

He lands easily on the Weasley's hearth, but Draco stumbles a bit, catching himself on Harry's arm. Draco's fingers rest easily in the crook of Harry's elbow, and he very nearly places his hand over top of them to hold them there.

"Harry!" Molly cries as she walks into the room, smiling and with her arms wide. Draco's hand falls from Harry's arm, and he misses it with a sharp twist in his gut. It's overwhelmed by Molly's arms around his shoulders and the smell of her perfume. "Happy Christmas, my dear."

"Happy Christmas."

"And you," Molly says, releasing Harry to look at Draco, considering. "That's a beautiful jumper, my dear. You'll have to tell me where you got it from."

Draco, eyes wide, glances down at himself, then back up again. "I don't actually know. It used to belong to my fa— my family. Member."

"An heirloom, then." Molly reaches for his hand, and Draco lets her take it. "Something this lovely should be cherished. I'm sure whoever made it would be happy that it's still being used."

"Thank you."

"Now"—she squeezes Draco's hand and releases it—"let's get you both some tea, and we'll get started on the presents."

She walks out of the room, yelling for Ron, and Harry goes to follow her. When Draco doesn't move, though, Harry stills.

"Are you okay?"

Draco runs his hand down his jumper, fingers rising and falling with the cables. "Yes. Yes, I'm fine. Come on, Potter, let's get this over with."

Striding ahead without any sign of his former hesitancy, Draco leaves the room. Harry follows after him, feeling suddenly nervous. 

Molly's outdone herself this year. The room is outlined with white lights, miniscule _Lumoses_ that shift and float like snow captured in a sunset. The tree is covered in more of the same, and its branches have red ribbons tied to their ends. Littered with glass ornaments in green and gold, it's picturesque. As Harry walks into the room, he feels a weight lift from his shoulders.

The whole Weasley clan is scattered about the front room. Ginny is draped on the couch in her pyjamas, with Ron and Hermione snuggled up on the other side. Angelina is sitting in the armchair with George on the floor between her knees, his head resting on her jean-clad leg. Arthur is sitting by the tree, and Molly's standing by a chair from the kitchen that's pulled up next to him. Draco has wedged himself into a corner of the room, arms crossed as he leans against the wall.

"Where are Bill and Fleur?" Harry asks, looking around the room. "And Charlie?"

"Charlie's not making it until dinner," Ron says. "They had a late clutching, a Fireball that was having problems keeping her fire up."

"And," Arthur says, "Fleur's a bit too close to the end of her pregnancy for the Floo journey. We'll be going over there on Boxing Day."

"Lots of babies this Christmas," Molly says with a smile. "Of all sorts. Draco, dear, how do you take your tea?"

Draco startles, but Harry's pretty sure he's the only one who sees it. "A bit of milk, no sugar."

"I'll go get you a cup. Harry?"

"Same as ever," he says.

"Too much sugar, then," Molly scolds playfully. "I'll be right back. Why don't you boys get settled and we'll start passing out gifts once I'm back?"

Harry makes himself comfortable on the floor by the couch, between Ron and Hermione. She ruffles his hair, and Ron kicks him a bit.

"Happy Christmas," he says when Harry swats his foot away. "You'd better have gotten me something good this year. No more dishcloths."

"You love those dishcloths," Harry says with a frown. "You use them all the time."

"Not the point, mate." Ron winks at him.

Hermione shoves at her husband, who laughs. "We'll love whatever you've gotten us, Harry. Don't listen to him."

Harry smiles, then starts taking Shrunken presents from his pocket. After Enlarging them again under the tree, he looks at Draco, who's still standing in the corner. "C'mon, Malfoy," Harry says. "Come grab a seat."

"Yes, of course." He takes a hesitant step forward, then stops. "Where, exactly, shall I sit?"

"Here," Ginny says, getting up from the couch with a long stretch. "I'll grab another chair, you take my spot."

"Thank you." It sounds so stilted that Harry's afraid Draco might trip on the politeness. He makes his awkward way to the couch, then sits on the edge of the cushion, back pencil-straight and hands resting on his knees.

Ron huffs out a breath. "Loosen up, Malfoy. It's Christmas. Good will to all men, and all that rot. Ow! 'Mione. What was that for?"

Hermione inspects her nails, as if her pinch may have broken one of them, then smiles lovingly at her husband. "Nothing, dear."

Draco barely restrains his smirk, but he does sit a bit more comfortably on the couch.

A moment later, Molly comes out of the kitchen with two cups of tea. She hands one to Draco, then the other to Harry, then joins her husband by the tree as Ginny settles on her newly procured chair. "Shall we start with presents, then?"

Handing out gifts is as orderly as it ever is in the Weasley's house. Harry ends up with a small pile in front of him, as do the rest of the people in the room. All except Draco. He tries his best to not look displeased, but when there's only one present placed in front of him—from Harry—his shoulders tense.

"Last one," Molly says, pulling a small package from under the tree. "Draco, dear. This is for you." She walks to him and sets it in his hands, smiling the whole way. "I do hope you like it. Go ahead and open it up, get us all started."

Malfoy nods, but doesn't say anything as his fingers pick at the taped seams of the paper. He doesn't tear the paper, instead undoing the tape and carefully unwrapping the present so that the paper is still in one sheet. As soon as he finishes pulling it open, he breathes in sharply.

It's nothing spectacular. There's no gold or silver, no ostentatious wealth put on display. There's only a simple striped scarf in green and grey, its fringed end running through Draco's fingers as he does his best to breathe.

"I would've made you a jumper if I'd had the time for it," Molly says, giving Harry a quick, reproving look. "I do hope you get some use out of it. Harry tells me it can get cold in London."

Draco takes the scarf out, and it falls into long loops of knit fabric. A moment later, his eyes catching Harry's for some kind of approval, he loops it about his neck once, twice, then holds the ends in his hand, thumb brushing across a simple _D_ embroidered on the end.

"It's lovely, Mrs Weasley," he says, his voice wrecked. "Thank you."

Everyone else starts digging into their presents, and the room fills with the sounds of happy exclamations and laughter. But even though Harry unwraps his own packages, he can't take his eyes off of Draco. He hasn't opened Harry's present yet, still fascinated by the scarf. After a few minutes of running it through his fingers, he stands and excuses himself.

Scrambling from the floor, Harry hurries after him. He isn't sure where Draco's gone, not until he feels a trickle of cold air and hears a door shut. Harry hasn't brought a jacket, so he casts a quick warming charm and steps outside.

Draco's not far from the house. He's sitting on a bench in the garden, knees parted, elbows resting on them, a lit cigarette held between his limp hands, the scarf still looped about his neck but held far from the tiny ember.

"Malfoy?" Harry asks as he steps closer. "You all right?"

Draco laughs quietly, then presses his fingers and thumb to his eyes. "Yes, Potter, I'm fine."

"You sure? You don't look fine."

"I'm…" He takes a drag on his cigarette, lets the smoke out slowly. "I thought they'd all hate me."

"They don't, though."

"No, they don't." He picks up the end of his scarf, flaps it in Harry's direction. "No, they make me gifts by hand and at the last possible moment, and they give me their seat on the couch, and they welcome me into their home, as if I hadn't been a total shit to them for years. As if my father hadn't nearly killed their only daughter. As if my family hadn't done everything in their power to make their lives a living hell. Fuck."

He takes another long drag on his cigarette, then shakes his head as he looks up at Harry. Smoke curls from his mouth as he exhales another curse.

"I just… It doesn't make any sense."

"It's called forgiveness, Draco."

"It's undeserved is what it is."

"I disagree." Harry stands before Draco, then crouches down. "How long are you going to punish yourself for your mistakes?"

"Until I don't feel like I need to anymore." He finishes his cigarette and Vanishes the butt. "I shouldn't have come."

"Draco." Harry puts his hand on Draco's knee, and though it shouldn't, the touch burns. "You're welcome here."

"I know." He takes a deep, shuddering breath. "But I shouldn't be."

Anger flares in Harry's chest. "That's not your decision to make. The Weasleys want you here. _I_ want you here."

"Why?" The question rips from Draco's throat, harsh and unwelcome in the cold air.

The answer is torn from Harry just as forcefully, the words falling from his lips almost before he can think of them. "Because you're my friend."

Draco's head snaps up, his grey eyes bright in the morning light.

"I mean, obviously we're friends now." Harry swallows. "It's just… I don't have that many people in my life, friends or otherwise, but everyone in that house is someone I chose. And I guess… Well, I guess I've chosen you, too."

Draco's head dips again, and his shoulders begin to shake. Harry thinks he's crying at first, until he hears the laughter. "You're such a fucking Gryffindor."

"Fuck you."

It only makes Draco laugh harder. "Circe's tits, Potter. You're so damned sincere."

"Well. I mean it. Sincerely."

Draco's smiling when he looks up. "I can tell."

"Let's go inside, yeah?" Harry feels off-center, but something warm is growing in his chest. "It's bloody freezing out here."

Draco tugs on his scarf, tightening it slightly around his neck. "Speak for yourself, Potter. I'm perfectly comfortable right now."

"Of course you are." Harry squeezes Draco's knee one more time, then stands. "C'mon, prat. Let's go back inside."

And they do.

* * *


	11. Jingle Bells

## X

## Jingle Bells

### 21 December 2003

* * *

Since neither Draco nor Harry have ever been fans of the overly formal official Ministry Christmas party, and they've both been promoted—Harry to Lead Auror, Draco to Senior Unspeakable, though Harry thinks Draco's been made a lead clerk with the Post Office—to positions high enough that they can skip it, they've decided to host their own.

Draco's flat is barely large enough for him and one guest, so they're holding it at 12 Grimmauld instead. It's taken the better part of a week to get the place fancied up enough to suit Draco's taste, but as he brushes the last bit of dust from his hands, Draco's happy to say they've managed to do it in the nick of time.

The front parlour is transformed. Instead of the dark brown couch and armchairs that had been there since gods-know-when, Draco's Transfigured them into more modern pieces with bright white upholstery and thick, comfortable cushions. There's a matching rug in the middle of the room, a small wooden coffee table in the center, and everywhere, looping garlands of pine and fairy lights. He'd dragged his dwarf Spruce over, too, and it's decorated in the corner. There's a cauldron of mulled wine on a table, along with an array of snacks and liquor.

It's bloody perfect.

"Potter!" Draco yells, turning towards the hallway to the kitchen. "Get your arse down here, you wanker! People will be arriving any second, and I'm not going to greet them in _your_ home."

"I'm coming, prat," Harry yells back, though his voice is fond.

Draco helps himself to a bit of wine, then wanders towards the hallway. "I'm not your housekeeper, Potter. I'll be horribly rude to anyone who arrives that you don't gre—"

As Harry steps around the corner, Draco's voice abandons him. Standing in the middle of the hallway, desperately trying to get his hair to behave, Harry is wearing what might be the rudest jumper Draco's ever seen in his life. Not just because the damned thing is an assault on Draco's senses—black with a red collar, cuffs, and hem—but because of the awful statement blazoned across the front.

 _Jingle My Bells_ , with a massive bow and two bells dangling beneath it like…

"What the hell are you wearing?"

Harry stops, his hands still tangled in his hair. "A jumper?"

"A jumper."

Harry looks down, then back up. "Yeah. It's… It's a Muggle thing. You wear Christmas jumpers, but they're a bit…"

"Garish. Rude." _Distracting._

Because as awful as the jumper is, Draco's thoughts are worse. His mind, already distracted by Harry's dark, shining hair, and bright, shining eyes, is now wondering about what else he might find distracting on Harry's body.

They've been friends now for three years, known each other for almost a decade and a half. Draco's watched Harry grow from an awkward boy in oversized clothes to a confident man in… well, still oversized clothes, but it's for comfort rather than neglect now. He's alternatively hated Harry and respected him, but now, Draco _desires_ him, and that's entirely unacceptable. Not that Draco wants, but rather that he wants what he can't have.

And if he's honest with himself, he's wanted Harry since he testified at Draco's trial. Since he stood strong and tall and proud and declared that Draco Malfoy deserved a second chance.

And now, that damned jumper… Draco's thinking about bells and jingling, and gods, this is not what he needs right now.

"Do you not like it?" Harry asks, his expression falling.

Draco lies like the dog he is. "I love it. It's brilliant, honestly."

"Fantastic." Harry grins at Draco like he's won the lottery. "I can't wait to see what Hermione thinks."

"She's going to absolutely hate it," Draco says, which sends Harry into a fit of giggles.

"I know!" He wipes at his eyes. "This is going to be great."

* * *

Of course, Hermione immediately tears into Harry about the jumper and its inherent misogynistic overtones, and that sends Draco out of the room so she doesn't smack him for laughing so hard. Weasley doesn't get it until Dean Thomas explains it to him, and then Weasley starts laughing. His wife tries to hit him, but he dodges her, and then they two of them are chasing each other around the room while everyone else—Seamus Finnegan, Dean Thomas, Luna Lovegood, Neville Longbottom, Ginevra, and Harry in the center of it all —laughs until they can't breathe.

"Jingle my bells," Weasleys says from the floor, Hermione sitting on his stomach and slapping at him while he fends off the blows, the both of them laughing. "Do you get it, 'Mione? Do you?"

"Of course I do, you idiot." She finally grabs his hands and bends down to kiss him, quick and smiling. "It's bloody obvious, isn't it?"

"Still funny, though." He leans up and kisses her again. They've had enough wine to lose track of where they are. Or at least they do until Finnegan throws a Christmas cracker at them, then another. They break apart, laughing, and Ron throws two fingers up at the rest of them.

Draco can't help but watch Harry, laughing and drink-flushed and so happy it makes Draco ache. Surrounded by his friends and the soft glow of the fire and the fairy lights, Harry seems like an ethereal creature, something that shouldn't exist, that shouldn't be so close that Draco could touch, if only he found enough bravery to reach out and _do it_.

So, instead, Draco drinks his wine, and he watches the brightest thing in the room, and he's thankful he can have even a bit of that reflected light in his life.

* * *


	12. I've Got My Love To Keep Me Warm

## XI

## I've Got My Love To Keep Me Warm

### 20 December 2004

* * *

When Harry meets Draco at the Floo for their now-annual Christmas party, he freezes.

"Are those deer fucking?"

"No, Potter, they're making love. Piss off."

* * *


	13. Here We Come A-wassailing

## XII

## Here We Come A-wassailing

### 25 December 2004

* * *

This is only the third time Draco's been to the Weasley's for Christmas, but he has to admit—somewhat to his annoyance—that it's all starting to feel a little bit familiar. Molly greets Draco at the hearth with a hug and a cup of warm cider. The rest of the family is spread around the Christmas tree in monogrammed jumpers in a variety of hues. Delicious aromas waft out of the kitchen, enticing and full of butter and spice.

Harry is lounging on the couch, one leg bent at the knee and his socked foot resting on the cushion, the other on the floor. He's chatting quietly with Ron, who's looking around the room while Harry talks. His eyes don't stop roaming until he finds Hermione, coming in from the kitchen with a steaming mug of something or other. His blue eyes warm as soon as he sees her, his smile softening into something delicate and rare. Draco feels like he's interrupting, an unwelcome witness to a private moment between the two.

It's love, writ large and bold for anyone with eyes to see, and Draco wishes, not for the first time, he had something with even half the intensity of what Ron and Hermione have built between them. The few times that Draco's tried to have a relationship—four times in the last year and a half, not that he's keeping count—have all ended in disaster, and not always because of Draco. There'd been Astoria, a childhood friend whom Draco had thought would be a good match, only to find out they were more ill-suited than he and a Hippogriff. After her, he dated one other woman—Amelia—who had a horrible habit of slurping anything liquid that went in her mouth. And yes, it _did_ translate to her sexual technique. Draco never thought that someone could slurp while kissing, but Amelia proved him wrong. He excused himself after that first disastrous kiss and never called her back.

Roger came after, and Draco knew he wasn't going to work out almost immediately. The man had been stunningly gorgeous, but clearly an idiot. Draco nearly considered going along with it, just for the shag, but when Roger had commented on the same _Seeker Weekly_ article for the third time, Draco couldn't make himself go through with it, orgasm be damned.

Baron is hardly worth mentioning, other than to say that the man had grabbed Draco's arse as soon as they met outside the restaurant, and then Draco broke his nose, and it quickly devolved from there.

Harry thought the whole thing hysterical. All of Draco's failed dates had come up at their regular night at the local, and as Draco did his best to drown himself in gin and tonic, Harry did his best to not choke on laughter. It hadn't been unkind, though, only commiserating. When the whole Baron situation came up, Harry had gone still and calm, like the ocean before a storm, and Draco had to very carefully explain that he'd handled things and didn't need Harry to ride in on his white stallion to slay the foul beast.

"If you see him again and he tries anything…" Potter warned.

"I will _not_ be seeing him again," Draco replied with a sniff, "what with the grievous bodily harm."

The conversation left Draco feeling warm the rest of the night, though he might have been able to write it off as the gin if it hadn't been for Harry's continued glances his way, and the hint of worry in his eyes.

Draco tries his best to not read too much into those exchanges, the little moments where Harry's eyes linger or his expression becomes a bit too serious. If Draco let himself, he could believe that there might be more to their friendship than the easy thing that's grown between them over the last four years. It is, of course, still a bit antagonistic. Draco's not entirely sure he would be able to recognise himself if he weren't trying to needle Potter from time to time. He knows he'd miss the back and forth they have, the way they trade painless barbs like it's a competition. It sets his blood racing to see the fire of competition in Harry's green eyes, even though Ron and Hermione whinge and groan whenever he and Harry really get going.

It's exactly what Draco wanted when he was eleven and he held his hand out to Harry on the Hogwarts Express. But as an adult, Draco knows that what he wanted as a child and what he wants now are two entirely different things.

So even though Draco's woken from more than one dream where he and Harry are tangled about each other like two vines, their hands and mouths moving over skin, cocks hard and insistent between them, he refuses to try for anything more. It makes him feel foolish and saccharine to say it, but Harry is his best friend. Draco's had so few true friendships in his life, he doesn't dare put this one at risk.

Especially since his interest seems entirely one-sided. Harry doesn't have any issues dating. He jumps from one paramour to another, men and women rotating through his bed on a schedule so regular that Draco could set his watch to it. No one stays for long, but whenever they're around, Draco hates them with a vicious twist in his stomach that tastes like acid and regret. Not that he lets Harry know that, of course. It's not Harry's fault that Draco's developed—ugh— _feelings_ for the man. Draco isn't rude enough to shove those at Harry, either, or try to force him to feel something for Draco that he doesn't.

It stings, for certain. But it's not the first time that Draco hasn't gotten his way, and their friendship is a bright spot in his life, a constant joy as much as it's a constant reminder of what he doesn't have.

But today's not the day to worry about such things. Weasley's caught Draco staring, and he's frowning at him and reaching for a bit of discarded wrapping paper, readying to throw it.

"Who's next?" Draco asks, walking to the tree to grab another present from under the boughs. "Ah, Ginevra, this is for you."

"How long are you going to keep calling me that?" she asks as she takes the gift. "I've told you to call me Ginny for years now."

"When 'Ginny' stops sounding like a description of my late Great Aunt Walburga and her propensity for liquor. Now, quit your complaining and open your present."

Sticking her tongue out at him like the child she really is, Ginevra tears into the paper. A moment later, she's holding her gift—a pair of custom Quidditch gloves that Draco commissioned—in the air for everyone to see.

"I take it back," she says as she slides them on. Clenching and unclenching her fists, she grins up at him. "Keep calling me Ginevra as long as you like, just keep the Quidditch gear coming. Merlin, these are fantastic."

"I'm glad you like them," he says, ducking his head to hide his flush. He's still not good at accepting praise from the Weasleys, even when it's deserved.

"C'mon, Malfoy. Come sit down." Harry says before shifting on the couch to make room. He pats the cushion next to him, elbowing Ron to move over as Draco steps around already opened presents and comfortably sprawled Weasleys to join him.

The seat is still a bit warm from Harry's body heat, and it's distracting enough that Draco doesn't immediately notice when Harry's thigh starts to press against his own. The couch cushion is sagging under his weight, causing him and Harry to slide together. Draco's leg is so warm where it touches Harry's, and he wants to revel in the heat as much as he wants to pull away from it.

His name being called from across the room drags his attention back to the tree. "Present for you," George says before throwing it to Draco. He catches it, Seeker's reflexes still good after all this time, and looks down at the label.

_From H_

_To Prat_

"I should hex you," Draco says, not really meaning it. But as he opens the lumpy package, he thinks he might need to change his mind.

Inside is the ugliest pair of socks Draco has ever seen. They're knit in a dark brown wool. It's not scratchy—thank the gods—but there are four lines from the top, running all the way to the heel, then showing up again along the foot. The toes are going different directions—Draco isn't even sure how that's possible—and the heels don't look to be the same size. He's also not entirely sure if he'll be able to fit them into shoes, as they're made with a heavier wool than he normally likes.

They are atrocious.

He doesn't think he's received a better gift in his entire life.

"Thank you," he says to Harry before bending down to start taking off his shoes. They kick off easily enough, and then he pulls his own argyle socks off. Barefooted in the Weasley's front room for only a moment, he slides first one sock, then the other, on.

They fit better than he thought they would, though they are a bit roomy around the leg. He'll Shrink them later, when Harry isn't looking. He wiggles his toes, enjoying the slight tickle of the wool against his skin. They're soft and warm, and he quickly goes from having slightly cold feet—a perennial problem for him—to feeling comfortable and, if he's honest, a bit sleepy.

"You like them?" Harry asks tentatively. "It's the first decent pair I've managed, and I wasn't sure if they'd be any good. It's okay if you hate them. I know they're not that nice, and—"

"Potter, if you don't stop rambling, I will stuff one of these socks so far in your mouth, you won't be able to talk anymore, and I would be very unhappy to do so because I adore them." At Harry's startled look, Draco softens his tone and smiles. "Honestly. They're perfect. Thank you."

"You're welcome." Harry's thigh presses a bit tighter against Draco's, and he can't help the warmth that rushes from his toes to settle in his lower stomach. He hides his smile in his wassail. The sip he takes fills him with more heat.

It eventually passes as more presents are handed out. Draco receives a jumper from Molly, his first, and he dutifully puts it on. Unlike the rest of the family's, though, his is made in a black so rich, it soaks up the light. His monogrammed _D_ is smaller and above his left pectoral, and the fit is clean and tapered at his waist. The cuffs are exaggerated, a thick rib that starts a little before his wrist and goes to about halfway up this thumb. It fits him perfectly, and he's thoroughly surprised and impressed at the level of craftsmanship.

Molly has the audacity to look smug when he brings his startled gaze up to meet hers. After a moment, she winks, laughs, and then starts ushering the family into the kitchen to eat.

Four courses later, everyone is half-awake and content.

Draco's standing in the kitchen, refilling his wassail, when Hermione comes through the arched entry from the front room, her glass also empty. She stands next to Draco as he finishes topping off his mug, but when he offers her the ladle, she declines.

"Now, I don't know if anyone else has noticed," Draco says as he takes a tentative sip, "but you haven't had any wine. And I noticed Molly had your favorite smoked sausage with the crackers and cheese before dinner, but you didn't have any. Same with the shrimp."

"And…?"

"And that's not usual for you, Granger. You've never seen a bit of seafood you didn't like. Do you want to tell me what's going on, or shall I ask an impolite question instead?"

She sighs, then ducks her head with a sheepish grin before placing a hand over her belly. "I told Ron you'd figure it out. You always were too perceptive by half."

Draco never thought he'd feel this level of joy at the news that another Weasley would be coming into the world, but he's awash with it. It's pure and unbridled, and he's nearly overwhelmed by it. Holding back the ridiculous grin that wants to erupt from his face, he asks, "When are congratulations in order?"

"End of July, beginning of August." Her eyes shine, her own smile a simple, happy thing that makes him ache. "We were planning on telling everyone after the new year."

Draco raises his glass, throat tight. "To the newest Weasley."

"To the newest _Granger_ ," she says, raising her empty glass.

"Let me," he says before refilling it with iced water from a pitcher. "Do you know what you're having yet?"

"No, it's still too early. My money is on a boy—you've seen Ron's family—but Ron keeps insisting it'll be a girl, just to mess with the order of things."

"I'll trust a mother's intuition before I do Weasley's divination skills. Let me know when you're having a shower. I'd love to provide you with a few things for the baby's room."

"Oh, that's months and months away," she says with a soft laugh. "We're still getting used to the idea. It's been the two of us for so long now."

"You've had Potter, too," Draco adds with a grin. "That's basically the same thing, isn't it?"

"I never had to change Harry's dirty nappy."

Draco laughs. "How'd he take the news?"

Hermione's smile dims a bit, and she takes a sip of water before speaking again. "We haven't told him yet. You're actually the first."

"I… What?"

"Like I said, we weren't going to say anything until after New Years."

"Well." Draco takes another drink of wassail and burns his tongue on it. "I'm honoured, truely."

"You won't tell him, will you?" Hermione grabs Draco's wrist.

"It's not my secret to tell, Granger, and I doubt he'll have noticed."

"Speaking of noticing"—her hand tightens on his arm—"you really seem to like those socks he gave you."

"They're very warm. Serviceable."

"I've never seen you wear anything 'serviceable' before in my life, Draco Malfoy."

"Well"—he gently pulls his arm away—"first time for everything."

"You know, if you just talked abou—"

"Ah, I think I just heard someone call for me. Must be off." He darts in to kiss her cheek, leaving her stunned into silence. "Lovely chat, Granger."

* * *

Later that night, when Draco's back home in his tiny flat all by himself, too warm with drink and happiness, he carefully gets ready for bed. Molly's sweater gets put away in a cedar-lined drawer in his dresser, while his trousers and shirt get added to the pile for the cleaners. Down to just his pants and Harry's socks, Draco wonders where to put them, then decides against it. His room gets chilly in December, and there's a sharp wind blowing outside and rattling the panes. The socks will help stave off the chill, and he does have poor circulation.

Draco drifts off to a half-waking dream where the warmth in his socks and the warmth of Harry's thigh pressed against his own melds into one, so his body is subsumed by the heat of Harry's pressed along every inch of Draco.

There's no room for a chill in his bed tonight.

* * *


	14. O Tannenbaum

## XIII

## O Tannenbaum

### 3 December 2005

* * *

Harry's just started putting up his Christmas decorations when he notices it. If he hadn't been digging through the cupboards, looking for last year's fairy lights, he would've missed it entirely. After all, it's been years since Kreacher lived at Grimmauld, and Harry never forced him to live under the cupboards or in the wardrobes. But tucked in the back of the hall cupboard, nearly forgotten under an old broom and a set of stained Quidditch robes, is a small evergreen.

Though it's still green and its needles are thick and heavy on the boughs—likely from some kind of house-elf magic that Harry doesn't understand—it's severely bent to one side, a single ornament dangling from the top. The small white pot it's in is stained with dark fingerprints, too small to be human. Gently, with care, Harry moves the robes and the broom, and takes the pot out of the closet.

The fingerprints wipe away easily enough from the ceramic, and a bit of magic perks the tree up. Harry doesn't add any other ornaments, just wipes the dust from the one hanging from the top. It's cute, in a kind of depressing way, but Harry likes it. There's a small table by the front door where he normally collects his mail, but he clears it off and sets the tree there instead. He rotates it to the right, then the left, then spins it around fully. It leans towards the wall now, rather than to the side, and he can barely tell it lists at all.

Perfect.

Happy in a quiet way, he goes back to finding the fairy lights and finishing his decorations.

* * *

Later that evening, Harry's curled up on his couch with a book when his fireplace flashes green.

"You there, Potter?"

Sighing, Harry sets down his book. "What do you want, Malfoy?"

"I'm coming through, one moment."

The fire roars, and then Draco steps through, brushing ash off of his clothes, as if there's any on them. He somehow never manages to get dirty stepping out of the grate. But as he looks up from his spotless shirt front, he stills. "What in the hell is that?"

"What is what?" Harry glances around, then holds up his novel. "This?"

Draco looks at the cover, then raises an eyebrow. "We'll come back to _that_ later. But I was talking about that excuse of a tree by the door."

Harry can tell that Draco's getting ready to go into one of his rants, but rather than trying to stop him, he settles back into the couch and gets ready for the show. "I like it. I think it's… cute."

"Cute." Draco scoffs. " _Cute_. What it is, Potter, is a disgrace. It's uneven, for one thing, and you've barely put any trouble into decorating it. _One_ ornament? Really? You could've at least put some lights or garland on it, something to brighten the poor thing up. Instead, you've got it sitting bare by your door, ready to embarrass you to anyone who'd bother to walk inside this dreadful place." Draco walks confidently over to the tree and picks it up, turning it this way and that in his hands. "There are a million other things you could have done here to make this look even the slightest bit decent, and instead, you've managed to make a disaster out of a bloody Christmas tree."

With a sniff, he walks out of the front room, tree in hand, and towards Harry's kitchen. Harry picks up his book again, and shouts, "Bring me a cup of tea when you're done, will you?"

When there's no response, Harry shrugs and goes back to reading. Draco arrived just as things were starting to heat up between Lady Penelope and Lord Bartrum, and if this novel's anything like the author's others, things are about to get steamy.

* * *

_Penelope stood at the top of the north tower, rain lashing down around her as she cried out in fear while Lord Farnsworth stalked closer._

_"I'll never let you have me!" she screamed into the tumultuous night. "Never!"_

_"I've never wanted you, my dear," sneered Farnsworth. "Just your money. And with your tragic fall from this very tower, just after accepting my proposal of marriage, there's very little anyone can do to stop me from having it!"_

_Lightning flashed, and Penelope screamed, her hands scrabbling against the rain-slicked stone balustrade. Behind him, outlined by the bright light, a figure approached._

_"Benedict, no!"_

_Farnsworth spun around, his hands reaching for his belt and the pistol concealed there. But Benedict's hands, so strong and firm against Penelope's body only a few hours ago, were like iron bands around Farnsworth's wrists. "If you think to do my lady any harm…"_

_"Your lady?" Farnsworth spat in Benedict's face. "She's nothing more to you than a fat purse."_

_"You're wrong." Benedict's teeth were bright as he snarled the words. "I love her."_

"Potter!"

Harry startles and since he's got his lip caught between his teeth, too engrossed in the novel to be paying any attention to anything else, he bites down. Hard.

"Fuck!" He tastes iron when he presses his tongue against the sting. "Damn it, Malfoy, you made me bite my lip."

"If you'd get your head out of those ridiculous books, you wouldn't put yourself in these situations. Now, put that bloody thing down and come see what I've done with your miserable little tree."

With a sigh, Harry sets the novel down on the coffee table. He doesn't bother closing it, just leaves it open to his page, the spine up. Draco glares at him. "Does Granger know you treat your books that callously?"

"What she doesn't know can't hurt me," Harry says with a laugh. "C'mon, show me this stupid tree."

Head tilted up a bit imperiously, Draco leads the way to the kitchen. When Harry walks through the threshold into the room, he gasps.

Never let it be said that Malfoy has bad taste. What he's done is incredible. The kitchen table, normally a long, ugly and scarred thing that feels too big for the room, is covered in a white runner. It sets off the darker wood and hides the worst of the damage done to it by years of neglect and the Order's lackluster approach to coasters. There are small candles along the length of it, tiny tea lights that create dots of brightness and release the warm smell of melting beeswax. Pine boughs dotted with cones lay in between them, and in the center of it all is Kreacher's tree.

It doesn't look anything like Harry remembers. The lean is gone, and the white pot is wrapped with a bright red and gold ribbon. Thin tendrils of light snake their way around the circumference of the tree, and when Harry leans closer to look, he sees that, rather than a string of very fine fairy lights, it's a series of miniscule _Lumoses_ that have been charmed into a line and woven between the branches. As he breathes out, they shift and move almost like fireflies. The tree itself is somehow dusted with snow, and as Harry watches, a tiny cloud appears over top of the table, letting a light dusting fall before being blown apart on an invisible breeze.

The red ornament is still pride of place, but Draco's managed to affix it to the top of the tree somehow, and he's replicated it in miniature and scattered them among the boughs. The red glints darkly in the soft light of the candles, and then changes color as he watches, being slowly covered by a swirl of first gold, then silver, until it twists and winds its way back to red.

Harry is blown away by the understated beauty of it all, and he knows as soon as he turns to look at Draco, the man is going to be unbearably smug about it all.

Doing his best to school his expression, Harry says, "It's all right, I guess."

The screech nearly undoes him. "All right? Are you having me on, Potter? This is phenomenal! It's breath-taking. Gorgeous! It's a work of bloody art!"

Harry can feel the smile tugging at his lips and does his best to bite it back, reminding himself that if he were to smile, the cut on his lip would likely hurt a good deal.

"If you like this sort of thing," Harry adds.

Draco, open mouthed and spluttering, looks like he might punch Harry. Harry recognises this expression, as he's seen it many, many times during their acquaintance. Draco's eyebrows do this thing where they can't make up their mind if they want to be drawn in at the center or raised to his hairline, so they end up somewhat off-kilter and uneven, equal parts astonished and angry. His hands are clenched into fists, but they're relaxed at his sides, rather than drawing up to ready the blow. Harry's got, maybe, five more minutes of teasing before he ends up with a sore cheek or a lack of breath after Draco puts his fist into Harry's gut.

"I don't know why I even bother," Draco grumbles, starting to turn away with a quickly saddening expression.

"Oh, c'mon now," Harry says as the other man takes a step towards the door. "Malfoy, I was just taking the piss. Don't be upset about it, it's lovely, honest."

Draco spins, expression slightly manic. "Ah ha! I knew it! You love it, admit it, Potter."

The laughter escapes his control, and he knows that Draco recognises it's happy rather than mocking. "Fine, fine. You're right, I think it's brilliant. But do you always have to go so over the top? There was nothing wrong with the tree before."

"It deserved better," Draco says with gravitas. "Something like that, it should be treasured."

"Like what?"

"It was your house-elf's, wasn't it?" At Harry's nod, Draco holds his hands out in a 'well, isn't it obvious?' kind of gesture. "There you go, then."

"I've no idea what you're talking about."

After a beat, Draco sighs. "Merlin, I forget sometimes you were raised by Muggles. What do you know about house-elves, Potter?"

"Um. I know that they're elves that live in houses?"

"How you managed to complete your education, I will never know."

"Technically…"

"Shut up and let me talk." Draco clears his throat. "There's very little written about the origin of house-elves. As far as history books can tell us, they started living with wix around the turn of the thirteenth century. But there's very little explanation about how that happened or where they came from. The leading theory in scholarly circles is that house-elves were forest spirits of a sort, caregivers who tended the groves and caves of Britain. When wix settled in those areas, the house-elves took them under their protection as much as the trees and forest creatures living there. It's in a house-elf's nature, after all, to care for things. Early wix took advantage of this and began to, effectively, domesticate house-elves, until they became what we know them as today."

"So, they're like dogs," Harry says, feeling a bit disgusted. "We treated them like dogs."

"No, Potter. Please, do keep up. Part of what feeds their magic is the care of things. When a house-elf takes care of its home or that home's inhabitants, it creates a feedback loop of magic. The better the job they do, the more magic they receive in return, which they then put towards the care and maintenance of the house…"

"Which then leads to happier witches and wizards, which gives the elves more power."

"Precisely. It's why ancestral homes tend to come with older elves. They've been part of the family for generations, feeding off of their magic and living longer because of it. So, judging by the size of the tree and the state of it, not to mention the magic signature literally seeping out of the damned thing, it belonged to one of the elves responsible for this home."

"I think it was Kreacher's," Harry adds helpfully.

"Honestly, whose it was isn't nearly as important as _what_ it is. It's a sign of an elf going back to their most elemental nature: whoever brought this tree into the home and cared for it, they were practicing a magic that's hundreds of years old." Draco takes a few steps forward and trails his fingers through the lights dotting the tree. They chase after his touch before falling back into line. "And because of that, it should be treated with the utmost respect and care."

Draco's smile is soft and wondering, and Harry's breath catches for a moment. Lit by candle and spell-light, Harry could believe that Draco stepped out of one of those ancient forests, a being of primitive magic and captured light. 

"How do you know all these things?" he asks, still breathless and struck by Draco's beauty.

"Granger's not the only swot you know, Potter," Draco says, his cheeks reddening as he pulls his hand away from the tree. "Just make sure you water it and cast a fertilizer charm now and again. It'd be a shame if it went back to the sorry state you found it in." Draco turns his back to Harry, and Harry takes the opportunity to look at the long, lean line of him, taking in the elegance and grace and painful intensity of Draco Malfoy, slightly embarrassed but unashamed.

Harry doesn't indulge this whim very often, his need to drink in the sight of Draco like a man just escaped from a desert needs water. But it eases something in Harry, though it's an ache that never seems to go away these days. Draco's back is straight, shoulders firm and steady. His waist is a narrow taper that Harry wants to know the dimensions of, not just from sight but by touch. He wants to drag his hands along the smooth fabric of Draco's waistcoat until they come to rest on Draco's hips, and then he wants to drag him closer until they're pressed against each other with only fabric between. He wants to know the heat of Draco's body, the taste of his skin, the sound of his sighs.

As Draco starts turning back, two cups of tea in his hands, Harry shuts those thoughts down ruthlessly. Lusting after Malfoy isn't going to get him anywhere, not when Draco's shown no interest in return. No lingering looks, no casual touches that last a bit too long, no invitations to stay for a night cap. Harry can't bring himself to force the issue either, unwilling to lose a friendship he didn't realise he needed until he had it.

"Your tea, Potter," Draco says, still holding the cup out. "Are you all right?"

Harry fumbles for the cup, then winces when a bit of hot tea spills over the rim and onto his hands. "Yeah, sorry. Just a bit distracted."

"Is it that damned book?" Draco asks before taking a sip. "Well, there's nothing for it, then. You're going to have to read it to me. It can't be _that_ good."

"It is, though." Harry recognises an escape route when he sees it. "You won't believe the scene you interrupted when you arrived. It's intense and ludicrous—"

"And you're loving it," Draco says with a laugh. "Let's go, then. No point in making you wait for the denouement."

Draco curls up in an armchair while Harry spreads back out on the couch, book in hand. After a quick summary of the story, he picks up where he left off, reading out loud as Draco sips his tea and gasps in all of the appropriate places. By the time Harry's reached the climax of the book—a passionate embrace shared by Penelope and Benedict—Draco's leaning forward in his chair, eyes wide and just a bit watery.

" _I love you, Benedict,_ " Harry reads with feeling and a slightly raised voice. " _I've always loved you._ "

Dropping an octave, he continues. " _And I, you. I was such a fool to nearly let you slip away._ With a sigh, Benedict pulled her closer, his arms tight around her supple form. Her lips parted, and he leaned in to capture her mouth in a powerful kiss. He could feel himself growing hard—" Harry coughs, cheeks flushing. "I think we're going to stop there."

"Potter!" Draco hurries across the room to snatch the book from his hands. "You can't stop when it's just getting good!" He skims the page until he finds where Harry left off, then continues to read silently. His eyes widen, and then he shoots Harry a leer. "Mr Potter, I had no idea you were interested in such filth."

"It's not filth," Harry says, laughing. "It's a love story."

"And dear Benedict certainly has a lot to love." He winks at Harry, then goes back to reading, settling into the chair again, his feet tucked underneath him. His expression turns from pointed amusement to completely engrossed before he even turns the page.

Harry does his best to not feel smug and settles in to watch Draco finish the book. It's not the first time Harry's read it, so he knows the final scene is rather heated. The further he reads, the more flushed Draco becomes, until he shifts uneasily in his chair and looks up to catch Harry staring at him. He closes the book with a snap.

"I'm leaving," he says, but not before very carefully getting up and tucking the book into his robes.

"I'll see you at work?" Harry asks, not moving at all as Draco makes his way to the fireplace.

"Only if you have post." Draco grabs a pinch of Floo powder and tosses it into the fire.

"So, lunch Tuesday."

"Of course." He flips Harry two fingers, then disappears in a flash of green.

Sighing, Harry goes to find the next book in the series, knowing that Draco will be asking for it sooner rather than later. He'll have to make sure to highlight the good parts.

* * *


	15. It's The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year

## XIV

## It's The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year

### 6 December 2005

* * *

Draco's nearly finished with a briefing he's been putting off for the last week when Potter knocks at his office door.

"One moment!" he yells, hurriedly scribbling the last of his notes onto the bottom of the parchment before signing it, sealing it with a secrecy charm, and stuffing it unceremoniously into his desk. Grabbing his cloak, he hurries to the door as Harry knocks again. "I said one moment!"

"C'mon, Malfoy!" Harry's voice rings through the door. "I've only got forty-five minutes before my next meeting, so if we're going to grab lunch, we've got to go now."

Draco wrenches the door open, then frowns at the frankly upsettingly attractive picture Potter makes. He's wearing his Auror robes, always an attack against Draco's fragile pretense of not being in lust with Harry. The red color seems to make the forest green of his eyes brighter, but now he's also got a flush high in his cheeks and his hair is slightly disheveled. He probably ran down here from the second floor, and it's forced him to catch his breath, his lips slightly parted as he drags air into his beleaguered lungs.

It's honestly unfair that Draco's expected to put up with this. He's been a good man. He donates his time and money to charity. He's working to stop what few remaining Dark magicians there are rattling around after the war. Just last week, he offered to train the newest Unspeakable, a thankless position that will certainly lead to many late nights and pounding headaches. All he asks in return is that the sight of Harry Potter in well-tailored clothes not immediately send his heart rate through the roof and his blood racing to places it's better off _not_ racing to, since he's at work and standing.

"Malfoy? Are we going or what?"

Shaking himself out of the lust-fogged stupor Potter's inconsiderately caused, Draco sighs and fastens his cloak. "Yes, let's go."

When he and Potter Appararate out of the Ministry to the local Apparition Point, there's a light rain falling outside. It's dark, the clouds doing their level best to turn the noon-day sun into dark night. It does mean the fairy lights hanging up and down the street shine brighter for it. The multicolored brightness sparkles in the wet pavement and in the reflection of Harry's glasses.

The sandwich shop is filled with other patrons when they arrive. Potter stuffs his hands into his pockets and sighs. "You want to go find us a table? I'll get our order in and come join you. BLT, yeah?"

"And a coffee."

"Coming right up."

Weaving his way through the crowd, Draco manages to find an empty table. It's small with just enough space for two chairs and kind of pressed into a corner, which makes it uncomfortably close, but it's better than standing or carrying their lunch back to the Ministry—Apparition always makes food taste slightly off. Draco gets comfortable, shifting his chair so he can see Harry waiting in line for their food.

He really does look unfairly good in his uniform. It's warm and damp in the restaurant, and Harry's taken his outer robe off. His white shirt is slightly rumpled, his dark suspenders digging into the line of his shoulders. The leather straps join in the center of his back, then travel to the top of his trousers, attached with shining, silver clasps. There's another belt where Harry's wand holster is attached, and Draco can't help but want to trail his hands over every line criss-crossing Potter's body.

He lets himself fall into a fantasy where he has that right, where he's allowed to place his hand at the small of Harry's back, right where his waist tucks in and his shirt puffs out a bit. Draco could slide his fingers into the hem of Harry's trousers, and when Harry would give him a quiet, heated look and tell him to _save it for later, Malfoy_ , he could protest that he was simply tucking Harry's shirt in, nothing more than that.

_Don't be lewd_ , he'd say before ducking in to steal a kiss. The corner of Harry's mouth would be turned up just a bit, his laughter stifled by Draco's lips.

It's so easy to let himself be swept away by it all, to pretend that it's real and as soon as Harry joins him at the table, he'll bend down and press a soft kiss to Draco's cheek and look at him like he's something precious. 

_But it's not real_ , he reminds himself as Potter steps forward in line. They're having Tuesday lunch together, like they always do. Even the restaurant isn't special, a small hole-in-the-wall Wizarding place that Harry introduced Draco to last year. It's got plain brick walls and a too-low ceiling, but it's also got the best BLT that Draco's ever had in his life and it's always packed. It would be pedestrian if the quality of the food wasn't so high. But more importantly than that, it's _their_ place, no matter how many other people Draco recognizes from the Ministry walking through the door. And even though they're only here as friends, it feels like something special, something private. 

Merlin, he's so fucked. He doesn't know why he keeps getting caught up in these thoughts. Draco wants to blame it on that damned romance novel. He finished it when he got home the other night, and after reading the most sexual thing he's ever encountered in his life—and he's had actual, physical, _kinky_ sex before—he couldn't stop thinking about how the spine of the book was cracked, and how absorbed in the story Harry was, and the flush of his cheeks when he started reading the final scene. And then all Draco had been able to think about was that Harry had read the book before, more than once, and he knew what was in those final pages. _And he let Draco take it home with him._

It's all he's been able to think about ever since. Shifting as his trousers get a bit tighter at the thought of Harry... _enjoying_ the book as much as Draco did, Draco wonders what level of Hell he'll end up in. Probably one of the bottom ones, if Dante has anything to say about it. Lust must be somewhere down near the traitors, since his dick is clearly one.

Potter steps up to the counter and grabs a tray with their food and drinks, then makes his way back towards Draco. Eyes darting through the crowd, they light up as soon as they land on Draco tucked into the corner.

Yes, completely fucked.

Harry sets the tray down, then settles into the other chair. Draco does his level best not to startle when their knees brush underneath.

"Sorry," Harry says as he grabs his sandwich. "Not much space, I'm afraid."

"It's all right," Draco says, when it patently isn't. He grabs his coffee, desperate for his hands to do something, and takes a sip, then almost immediately chokes.

"This isn't coffee," he splutters, his brain catching up that the sweet, rich flavor on his tongue is actually pleasant, even if unexpected.

"They were out, can you believe it?" Harry grabs his open cup, then pops the lid off of it. "All they had was hot chocolate or tea, and I figured you'd prefer the hot chocolate."

"Thank you," Draco says before taking another sip. Now that he knows what to expect, it's delicious. "Is there whipped cream in here?"

Harry grins. "And sprinkles."

"Thank you for that," Draco says with an eye roll. "I always prefer my beverages be decorated."

"You are posh like that."

"Shut up, Potter, and eat your lunch."

Draco eats quietly while Harry catches him up on the gossip of the Auror department. This is how it usually goes, Harry talking about his coworkers while Draco nods and makes appreciative noises at the right moments. Harry's particularly animated today, going on and on about Jones and his lackluster evidentiary handling skills.

"He didn't put the damned date on the thing, Malfoy!"

"Unconscionable."

"Exactly!" Harry crumples up the paper his sandwich was wrapped in and tosses it onto the tray. "I should write him up for it."

"Absolutely."

"Or string him up outside the Ministry and AK him."

"It's the least he deserves."

Harry glares at him. "You don't care at all, do you?"

"Not in the least." A second later, Harry's wadded up sandwich wrapper smacks Draco in the center of his forehead. "Uncalled for, Potter!"

"Whatever." Harry runs a hand through his already mussed hair and sighs. "He's getting transferred to Cornwall later this month."

Draco pauses from smoothing out the wrinkles in the sandwich paper. "You sound upset about that."

"He can't handle evidence for shit, but he's a good investigator, and we're getting a bit shorthanded lately. Not as many recruits joining as there used to be."

"There are fewer Hogwarts graduates who remember the war, I'd imagine."

"A good and a bad thing, I guess." Harry sighs. "I should get back. I've got a massive stack of paperwork to get through before I meet with Robards."

"I've got more than a few letters to Santa I need to get into the post myself."

Harry kicks him under the table, and Draco yelps. "Prat."

"You love it," Draco says, then promptly swallows his tongue.

If Harry notices that Draco's choking across from him, he doesn't show it. "Shut up," he says instead, standing with a wince. "Christ, I'm getting old."

"No, you're not," Draco squeaks out. He coughs once, twice, then takes a sip of his still probably-too-hot hot chocolate. It does help him breathe a bit better, though, even if the roof of his mouth is scaled.

"I _feel_ old," Harry says, waiting for Draco to stand. 

"Everyone feels old. That's what happens as you age."

Harry bumps his shoulder into Draco's, laughing. "You're absolutely trash at this commiseration thing, you know that, right?"

"If you haven't caught on by now, Potter, let me be frank: I'm not going to tell you what you want to hear just to make you feel better. That's hardly productive."

"Maybe," Harry says, sounding very aggrieved, "I'm not looking to be productive about this."

"Then tell me that at the outset, and I'll humor you. But otherwise, you should expect me to tell you the truth, whether you like it or not."

"Right." Harry shakes his head, then steps out of the sandwich shop. The rain has picked up significantly, so he casts a _Protego_ , making sure it covers Draco as well. Shoulders brushing, they walk back towards the Apparition Point. "You'd never think to lie to me. No shared history of that."

"We're friends now. I don't lie to my friends."

Harry glances at him, smiling and shaking his head. "I will never understand Slytherins."

"As if Gryffindors make any more sense," Draco says with a laugh. "Don't worry, I'll keep your delicate sensibilities in mind. No need to cause you undue suffering."

"Again, not like you've ever done that before." Harry laughs, then loops his arm through Draco's.

The whole world stills. The rain, still falling heavily, seems to stop, a sheet of frozen droplets of water hanging midair around them. Draco can feel the warmth of Harry's body pressed against him. There's sweat gathered in the crook of Draco's elbow, a slight discomfort that he barely noticed before but now finds unbearable. The weight of Harry's arm presses against it, making Draco's shirtsleeve stick and wrinkle uncomfortably. He doesn't know what's happening. He doesn't know why Harry's pulling him closer, his eyes dipping to Draco's mouth, then back up again.

"Malfoy?" Harry says, his voice quiet and soft like the rain that's falling against the _Protego_. "Are you ready?"

"Yes," he says, and he means it. Gods, he means it so much. It's a visceral thing, a wrenching readiness that he's barely holding back. His weight shifts, moving closer, closer,

And the hook of Apparition catches him under his navel and yanks him out of whatever misguided haze he's fallen into.

* * *

When they reappear in the Ministry atrium, Draco is dizzy and unsteady. Harry slips his arm out from Draco's, then claps him on the back. "See you later, Malfoy. Thanks for lunch."

"Right." Draco does his best to stop his BLT from finding its way from his stomach to the floor. "Later."

With a wave, Harry walks into the throng of Ministry employees returning from their own lunches. Draco makes his unsteady way to his office, the trip from the atrium to his basement level a blur of precarious nausea and self-recriminations. He slams his door shut, then immediately regrets it as he's whisked into the bowels of the building, his own stomach twisting with vicious intent before settling back down to a slightly more bearable state.

He's such an idiot.

Maybe Father Christmas will give Draco some sense this year. He's certainly lacking in it.

* * *


	16. Frosty The Snowman

## XV

## Frosty The Snowman

### 25 December 2005

* * *

With two mugs of hot chocolate in his hands—it's a matching pair that Ron had found in a second-hand Muggle shop and given to Arthur last year, one an upside down Santa, the other an upside down Frosty—Harry makes his way back to the front room. They finished eating hours ago, but no one's managed to get the energy to go home. Ron's nearly asleep on the couch, Rose sprawled out against his chest with the loose-limbed ease that only young children seem capable of. Hermione has her feet up on the couch, her toes tucked under Ron's thigh, a mug in her hands as she smiles softly at her family.

Harry's chest aches. It's not envy, though it feels akin to that. He wants what they have, that quiet thread tying them all together with loose knots that are strong as steel, but he doesn't resent them for it. There's space for him in there, too. When Ron passes Rose to Harry, her laughter spilling from her mouth like peals from a bell, he tells her, "Go to Uncle Harry, now." It feels _right_ , being Uncle Harry.

But he has to admit that he wants someone for himself. It's been years since he's dated, since he's _wanted_ to date for that matter, but maybe it's time for him to get back into it, to try and find someone that would fill the empty space in his heart.

Of course, there's a reason for that lack, and as he hands it one of the mugs of hot chocolate, he knows that, even though he's thinking about finding a date, he's not going to do it.

Not as long as Draco's a tantalizing maybe.

Of course, that does mean that Harry has to get up the balls to actually do something about it.

"Thank you, Potter," Draco says after he takes a sip of cocoa. "Now, go sit down. You're looming."

"Am not," Harry replies with significantly more maturity than his words would indicate.

As he settles down next to the tree, he tries to not let his eyes wander back to Draco. Molly's talking animatedly about something, and though Harry knows that Draco probably has as much interest in it as Ginny would, he's still nodding along appreciatively, his full attention focused on Molly and the difference between a scrubbing charm and a scouring charm, and when each are appropriate.

It's staggering to Harry, the way Draco's changed over the years. The fear he had so clearly felt when Harry first brought him to the Burrow is gone, replaced by a warmth that still leaves Harry staggered. If someone told his eleven-year-old self that the prat in Madam Malkin's would become someone Harry couldn't imagine not having in his life, he would've laughed in their face, caught his breath, and then laughed some more.

Draco, though, has become as dear to him as Hermione and Ron, maybe more so since the two of them started their family. They've been busy with Rose, and Harry hasn't wanted to be a burden or an imposition. They still talk almost daily, and he and Ron get together on the weekends to play pick-up games of Quidditch, but their friendship, while no less solid, has taken on a different shape.

And Harry's not the same himself. Shocking the way that seven years can transform a person. Tiny, almost unnoticeable shifts and changes that leave you looking almost the same, but feeling entirely different. Staring at Draco, Harry feels very, _very_ different, indeed.

There's a small bag next to him, the last set of gifts to be handed out. Mug held in one hand, Harry pulls the bag closer, then raises his voice. "Excuse me!" he says, watching as Ron startles and wraps his arm around Rose to keep her from falling. "I've got one last set of gifts for everyone."

He reaches into the bag and starts pulling out the smaller parcels within it. "They're not much, honestly, but I'm still trying to outdo Molly, so I had to make some effort this year."

After checking the labels on each one, he tosses them to their recipients. None of them are much larger than he can hold with one hand, which makes it easy for him to avoid standing up.

"What'd you make this year?" George asks, turning his package over and shaking it. "You've done scarves and washcloths."

"I've made some of these before," Harry admits. "But these are better than last year's. I've been practicing, and there's a local shop nearby where I've been taking some classes.

"Classes?" Ron laughs. "Mum, he's going to put you out of a job."

"Unlikely," Molly says with a proud sniff. "He's got a bit more to learn."

"And I'd never do a Weasley jumper justice," Harry adds before winking at Molly. "I know when I'm beat, but I do hope you like what I've made."

George is the first to open his present. It's a scarf in a deep maroon, with stripes of gold interspersed. At one end are his initials, and the other, the Wheeze's logo. It had taken Harry ages to get it just right, but at George's wide-eyed shock, Harry thinks it was worth it.

Ron's got a set of dish towels in Cannon's colors—"Oh, Harry, why?" Hermione groans from the couch as Ron gushes—and Ginny's got a set for the Harpies. For Arthur, Harry's knit him a tea cozy for his Muggle tea pot, and Hermione gets a pair of fingerless gloves.

"For when you're in the Ministry library," Harry explains. "You're always complaining about how cold it is in there."

For Molly, he's made a small bear which is wearing a sweater with a lop-sided B on the front. When she opens it, she laughs so hard, she has tears in her eyes. She hugs it close to her chest and beams at him, not needing to say anything for Harry to know how proud she is of his progress.

Meanwhile, Draco's staring at his gift, his mug forgotten on a side table.

It's just a pair of socks. They're black with green and grey speckles, and they're fairly basic. But Harry found a cabled chart of snakes, one that fit perfectly on the leg of his basic sock pattern, and he couldn't not make them for his only Slytherin friend.

"Do you like them?" he asks, though he really wishes he hadn't.

Draco runs his finger over the snakes, then looks up at Harry. "You've improved over the last year."

"I've been practicing."

"Well"—Draco swallows—"it shows. Thank you."

"Try them on."

Head whipping up, Draco's eyes are wide. "Right now?"

"Yeah. I wasn't sure if they were going to fit. I know we wear almost the same size shoe, or at least I think we do, but I wasn't sure. If they're too tight, I can undo the toe and reknit them for you."

"I can't tell you next week?" Draco asks, but he's already sliding his shoes off and reaching down to roll his black dress socks off. His feet are delicately arched and pale, the nails blunt and well-trimmed. Harry's never been one for feet, but he's struck by the beauty of Draco's, the elegant line of them as he points his toes and slides first one, then the other, into Harry's handmade gift.

He wiggles his toes, then turns his feet to the side. Legs stretched before him, he stares at the socks for a long moment.

"Well?" Harry asked, startled by how breathless he sounds.

"They fit perfectly." Draco slides his shoes back on and rolls his dress socks up before stuffing them into his pocket. "You got the size exactly right."

"Oh, great." Harry can't stop himself from grinning. "That's such a relief. I was so worried they'd be too loose or too tight."

"They're neither. Thank you."

While everyone slowly drifts back into conversation, Draco stays silent, mug held between his hands as he looks at his feet and the socks peeking out from the hem of his pants. It fills Harry with warmth and a fierce ache. 

He can't keep going like this. He's got lunch with Draco next Tuesday, and even though it's a terrible idea, he's going to have to do something about his feelings. He'll ask Draco out. It'll be easy. Simple.

Christ, he hopes he can do it.

* * *


	17. The Christmas Song (Chestnuts Roasting)

## XVI

## The Christmas Song (Chestnuts Roasting)

### 25 December 2006

* * *

The Weasley's party isn't for hours, and Draco feels like an utter prat standing on their doorstep, but he's run out of options.

He knocks politely at the door again, and after a moment, it finally opens. Arthur is wearing matching pyjamas and a dressing gown. He doesn't look like he's fully awake, and as he stares at Draco, his expression shifts from tired apathy to confusion to warmth.

"Draco!" He opens the door a bit wider. "Bit earlier than we expected you, but come in, come in. Molly's got the kettle going, and I think there's some banana bread if you're hungry. Let's get you out of the cold.

"Thank you," Draco says as he follows after, feeling awkward about the small bundle clenched in his hands. Salazar, this is so embarrassing.

"Who was that, dear?" Molly says as Arthur and Draco walk into the kitchen. She looks over her shoulder, nearly spilling tea onto the counter as she startles. "Oh, Draco! Whatever are you doing here this early?"

For a brief moment, he considers turning on his heel and leaving. But the fabric between his fingers is so thin, and he can't do anything about it on his own.

"I have a favor to ask you," Draco says softly, holding his bundle forward. "I don't know how to fix them."

Molly takes it from him, and as she does, the bundle unrolls. Now that they're not tightly wrapped together, it's clear they're the socks that Harry made for Draco last year, only they no longer look as perfect as they had been that morning. The heels are worn completely through, only being held together by fraying threads in other places. The toes aren't looking much better, especially the sole at the ball of the foot. The legs are fine, thank Salazar, the pair of twining snakes as pristine as they had been the first day.

"I've tried everything I could think of," Draco says, panic building as Molly examines the socks. "I found charms for repairing fabric, but they never stuck. And I tried researching how to fix socks, but I didn't understand half of the terms and I didn't want to risk ruining them even more. But I thought… Can you help me?"

Molly smiles soft enough that Draco almost feels it like a comforting touch. "Of course, my dear. Let's go into the front room. I've got my project bag in there, and I think I've got just the yarn for this."

She squeezes his hand as she walks past, and he trails after her with hope choking the breath from his lungs. With hardly any sign of distress, she settles into her chair, sets the socks down across the arm rest, and starts digging through the large wicker and canvas bag next to the basement.

"There it is," she says before pulling out a ball of thin black yarn. A few minutes later, she takes out an egg-shaped piece of wood on a handle, then a large needle and a pair of scissors. "When you've got something made by hand like this," she says as she pulls a length of yarn from the ball, cuts it, and threads the needle, "mending charms don't work as well as they're supposed to. Something about the magic can't grab onto the threads the way they're supposed to. You have to use Muggle techniques, like this."

Draco leans in a bit breathlessly as she flips one sock inside out and stuffs the egg-shaped thing into the leg, then to the heel. He sees it through the hole, and as he watches, another stitch slips free.

"Careful."

Molly looks up at him, eyebrow raised. "Draco Malfoy, I have been darning socks longer than you've been alive. I know what I'm doing. Now, hush and watch."

She takes the threaded needle and puts it into the fabric a little ways away from the hole, then starts weaving it in and out of the fabric. Once she has a line of tidy stitches across the hole and to the other side, she switches direction, laying another line of stitches parallel to the other. This time, though, she weaves her needle through the other stitches, leaving a tidy piece of new fabric behind. She does the same to the sole, then checks over the toe and quickly puts a few more stitches in what must be weak points in the fabric, though Draco can't tell the difference. After removing the egg, she flips the sock right-side out, then holds it out to Draco. He takes it carefully, amazed as how seamless the repair looks.

"I can barely tell," he says, stunned. "You… I don't know how to say thank you."

She takes the second sock and starts to repeat the process. "Why don't you tell me what happened to the poor things? And please, find yourself a seat, child. There's no need for you to stay standing the whole time."

Flushing, Draco hurries to another arm chair and sits. He runs his fingers over the repaired sock, embarrassed and vulnerable.

"I wore them," he says, as if that might explain it all.

It obviously doesn't, since Molly laughs softly, eyes still on her work. "I gathered as much. But you must have worn them almost constantly to get them to this state."

Draco thinks of sliding them on during the weekends, when the bare floors of his flat were too cold against his feet. Or making sure to wear them whenever he had an important presentation or a dangerous mission, as if they were talismans of luck rather than interwoven thread. He wore them while playing pick-up Seeker's games at the local wizarding park, and when he went for that extended stay with his mother and Aunt Andromeda. He tries to remember a time when he didn't wear them, but he can't remember any of the other socks he knows he's worn over the last year. They aren't important. These ones are.

"I wore them a lot," he finally settles on.

"I see."

The room falls quiet as Molly continues to stitch. Draco doesn't know what else to say. All of the things he feels for Harry are sitting out in the open right now, unacknowledged but still there. Who wears the same pair of socks, day after day, unless they mean something? Draco would've been more subtle if he'd written a fucking love letter and pasted copies of it up and down Diagon Alley. It would've been more dignified if he'd stood in the middle of the Ministry atrium and declared his undying love for one Harry James Potter than brought the tattered evidence of his breaking heart to Molly Weasley's doorstep.

"There we are," she says a moment later, the second sock restored and held aloft. "Good as new."

Draco hurries to take it from her, then carefully bundles the pair together. Finger coasting over the snakes out of habit, he tucks them into his pocket and wonders what to do now that they're repaired and he has no reason to be interrupting the Weasley's breakfast.

A few moments later, Arthur comes out of the kitchen with a mug and a plate. There's a thick slice of banana bread on it with a half-melted patty of butter in the middle. "Here, young man," Arthur says, holding both out to Draco. "You look like you could use a cuppa."

It's a bit of a relief to not have to make a choice, but to rather have it made for him. Draco gratefully accepts the plate and mug, then sits back down. Across from him, Molly picks up a pile of yarn and fabric, then starts knitting quietly. He takes a bite and sighs at the rich flavor of butter and bread.

"I must ask," Molly says as he finishes eating, "if you're ever going to tell him."

His breakfast suddenly like lead in his stomach, Draco tries to push it down with a swallow of tea and bravado. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

"I've raised seven children, Mr Malfoy," Molly says, not even bothering to look up from her knitting, "and I know when I'm being lied to. So I'm going to pretend that you didn't say that and wait for a real answer to my question."

"Is not answering an option?" He sighs when her hands still and she looks at him from under her brow. "I don't know. Very likely never."

"And why would you do that to yourself?"

Draco startles. "To myself?" 

"Holding those feelings in, that can't feel good for you."

He wants to squirm in his seat like a child being scolded. "My mother would be appalled at this conversation."

"I doubt that. If I recall, your mother loves you quite a bit. I don't think she'd be happy to see you pining away like this."

"I'm not pining."

"Your socks would argue against you."

Her wry tone startles a laugh from him. "Malfoy's don't pine. We waste away gracefully while staring out over the rain-dusted fields of our estates."

"Well, in that case, I'll make sure to not set a plate for you at dinner tonight."

"That's very considerate."

She's smiling when she finally looks up from her project. "Draco, darling."

"Why would I admit to feeling something like this when it's pointless?"

"Pointless?"

"He doesn't see me that way. It would be… humiliating to tell him I…  _ feel _ things for him."

"Well." Her needles click quietly, almost covered up by the crackling fire and the sound of Arthur in the kitchen. "I think you'd be pleasantly surprised, if you ever decide to change your mind."

* * *

That night, Harry gives everyone a new pair of socks. They're done in a Fair Isle style, simple bands of color with white patterns throughout. Draco's are grey and blue like a storm cloud sky with flashes of sunlight sparkling through. He runs them through his fingers, enjoying the plush feel of the fabric. They'll be perfect for late nights when he's out on the fire escape.

His head down as he looks at his gift, Draco doesn't see Harry gazing at him like he's starlight.

* * *


	18. Auld Lang Syne

## XVII

## Auld Lang Syne

### 31 December 2006

* * *

The back garden is frigid, even with warming charms and Muggle heaters scattered about. But Harry's made sure to keep the cider warm and spiked with Ogden's, and with all of the drinking they've been doing all night, no one seems to notice the chill.

Grimmauld isn't quite as desolate as it used to be, and Harry's put a lot of his focus into making the back garden more of a haven than the half-dead overgrown thing it was when he moved in. It's magically expanded, not by Harry's choice but seemingly by the house's, and a path winds its way from the back patio—a brick thing that had sprung up out of the ground one day like a weed out of the earth, only with an evenly spaced herringbone pattern rather than prickly leaves and thorns—to the far wall, then back again. There's a wrought iron bench just past the first bend, and a small table with chairs in the far back corner, and greenery hiding both until you stand in the right spot. There are a few trees that hang their low branches over the pathway, sheltering visitors from the sun when it's out or from the rain when it isn't. Ivies and grasses cover the ground, dotted in spring with flowers that have long since lost their bloom now. December isn't particularly kind to them, though Harry's tried his best to keep some spots of color with decorative kales. Bright bits of purpley-red and almost blue-green, tucked among the nearly black forest of English ivy. The rest of the color comes from lights that Harry strategically strung up around the place, a mix of Muggle and magic that casts everything in a kaleidoscope of color.

It's an escape from the city, a hidden place where he's finished more than one pot of tea while nestled up with a new novel. He loves it, and he loves to share it.

There are only a few people left from the earlier party. Harry hadn't invited many, just his usual mix of friends from Hogwarts and work, and while there'd been quite a crowd before, it's thinned out to just a handful of his closest friends as midnight approaches.

His mug of cider refilled and steaming in his hand, he wanders his way through the garden, looking for a place to settle for the fireworks.

As Harry comes around the corner, he finds Luna and Ginny sprawled on the bench, Luna's legs over Ginny's lap, her head resting on her shoulder. Ginny's running Luna's hair through her fingers, and though Harry can see them, he can't hear their quiet conversation. They look a bit drunk but happy. Ginny bends just a bit to kiss Luna, and they're both smiling as they do it. They pull apart as he approaches, his footsteps giving him away.

"Hullo, Harry," Luna says, smiling as she snuggles back up to Ginny. "Thank you for having us. And for breaking up with my girlfriend a few years ago."

Ginny flushes bright red. "Luna!" 

"No problem at all," Harry says, laughing. "Thank _you_ for keeping her out of trouble."

Luna gazes up at Ginny, clearly besotted. "She is a handful."

"You're both awful," Ginny says, though she doesn't stop running her fingers through Luna's hair. "I hate you both."

"Still a terrible liar, Gin." Harry winks. "Do you need anything? Refill on your drinks, Warming Charm, bit to eat?"

"We're fine, Harry, honestly." Ginny makes a shooing motion. "Go find someone else to pester. I think Draco's wandering around somewhere, he'd certainly love your company."

The thought of finding Draco hidden amongst Harry's garden, just another bright spot of magic tangled through the greenery, makes his heart stutter in his chest.

"I'll leave you two be, then," Harry says. "There's plenty of cider left, if you'd like any."

"Will do. Now, go away. I'd like to snog my girlfriend," Ginny says with a wink. "If you don't mind."

Harry flips her two fingers, laughing, and makes his way further down the path. Luna's voice carries through the night as he walks away, a quiet "Do you think he'll ever figure it out?" that makes Harry's face heat. He picks up his pace, not quite running away, but certainly flirting with the concept of retreat.

It's become a bit of an open secret, his interest in Draco. He's asked Ron and Hermione to keep it to themselves, but Harry's clearly doing a shit job of hiding his feelings if even Luna, who's rather easily distracted, is picking up on them. His horribly failed attempt to ask the man out the year before hadn't helped things.

He invited Draco to their usual lunch place. He offered to pay, pulled Draco's seat out for him—an action that resulted in more than a few minutes of Draco giving Harry very quizzical looks from across the table. In hindsight, that moment had sent Harry's mind swirling into a sea of negative thoughts, one he hadn't been able to pull himself out of by the time they'd finished eating. If Draco noticed anything amiss, he didn't show it. He'd talked, at length, about his plans for after the holidays and how things were at work, and nothing at all about Harry inviting him to their Tuesday place on a Thursday or the whole nonsense with the chair.

At the time, it had felt like a reprieve, a moment for Harry to reconsider his options before trying again. The only problem is that he _hadn't_. He stayed up late into the night, concocting grandiose ways to tell Draco that Harry had romantic feelings for him, only to throw them away in the bright morning light. For a brief, lunatic moment, Harry even considered sending the prat a letter, as if finding out one of your best friends wanted to shag you and feed you breakfast in bed before shagging you _again_ from a piece of parchment was any kind of a good idea.

So, they continued to have lunches and share novels and talk about anything and everything. And Harry continued to want and want and _want_ , with nothing to show for it except an ache in his chest.

A year later, it's no better. As Harry comes around the final bend in the path, he finds Draco. He's sitting at the small table, his mug by his side and his head tilted back, eyes closed. He looks like he's sleeping, though Harry knows he isn't. Draco wouldn't be caught dead passed out in anyone's garden, much less Harry's. No, this is Draco's "savouring the moment" expression, where he lets himself sit and exist, still and quiet like a breath waiting to be exhaled.

It looks radiant on him. With his pale skin and hair and the dark material of his great coat, Draco looks like some kind of winter spirit come to life against the dark green and the scattered, multi-colored lights of Harry's garden. One half of his face is lit in a soft pink, the other in blue, and Harry's thrown entirely off-kilter by how beautiful the colors look on Draco's skin, as if there's some immutable quality about Draco Malfoy that casts beauty onto the things that dare to touch him.

"Are you going to stand there all night, or are you going to sit with me?" Draco says, eyes still shut. Harry jumps, but tries to cover it with a cough.

"Sorry, I was just… tying my shoe."

"Your shoe. Right." Draco opens one eye, his mouth rising into a smirk. "Sit down, Potter, before I get a complex."

"As if you didn't have one already."

Draco laughs quietly and closes his eyes again. There's a second chair, and Harry pulls it out from the table and sits in it carefully. There hasn't been any snow or rain lately, but the metal seats tend to gather and collect moisture like it's their job, and he's been out here on more than one occasion only to end up with a wet patch on the arse of his trousers. Thankfully, the seat's dry, or at least not so damp that it'll cause Harry any problems, and he settles himself and does his best to not give into the urge to stare at Draco.

"It's been a rather odd year, hasn't it?" the other man asks, head lolling back and his face still cast in multi-hued beauty.

"A bit."

"You know Granger and Weasley are expecting again?"

Harry nearly spills his cider. "What?!"

"Damn it, don't tell me they hadn't told you yet." Draco sits up and glares at Harry. "I wouldn't have told you otherwise. Surely you noticed she didn't drink at all tonight."

"Are you sure?" Harry wracks his brain, trying to remember what Hermione did earlier that night. "She was drinking cider with the rest of us, I'm sure of it."

"Yes, but it wasn't spiked." Draco groans. "She's going to bloody kill me."

"I won't tell."

"She'll suss it out. The woman's a genius, and I've yet to see you lie to her convincingly."

Draco's right, which only sours Harry's mood. "Well. We'll figure something out. Maybe I can avoid her until she starts to show."

"Perfect. Your sharp, Gryffindor mind, clearly at work."

"Shut up." He kicks Draco's leg. "Maybe if you weren't so observant, we wouldn't be in this mess."

Draco kicks him back. "I'm not the one who doesn't pay attention to their supposed best friends."

Harry catches Draco's leg right under the ankle, and he curses before getting Harry in the calf with the pointed tip of his dress shoe. Quickly devolving into childlike behavior, they kick at each other's legs for a good two minutes until they're both laughing so hard, they can't breathe or see.

"Fuck," Draco says as he collapses back into his seat, "I'm going to have bruises all over my legs after that."

"You started it."

Draco laughs, loud and surprised and painfully amused. "I did not!"

Harry very nearly kicks him again, but holds off as he fights back laughter. Draco wipes a tear from his eye, mouth still curved into a smile, and tilts his head back to look through the branches above them. "Gorgeous night. The Muggle fireworks should be starting soon, yeah?"

A moment later, there's an explosion above them. White and gold sparks shower down in a cascade of light, followed quickly by a burst of green and red. They fall silent, watching as the night sky fills with a haze of color and smoke. Pinks and purples, blues, oranges, silver and gold. A shimmering, instant of rainbow light that fades into the blue-black of the night sky.

Harry knows he should be watching the sky, but all he can do is stare at Draco, his face lit up with joy and color. It's too much, and Harry's quickly overwhelmed with how much he _cares_ for this man, how much more he wants from their friendship.

"They're counting down," Draco says, turning to catch Harry's eye. When Harry looks up, he sees that Draco's correct.

Somehow, the Muggles have managed to create fireworks in the shape of numbers. There's a massive five floating over the city, then a four, a three, a two…

Draco is staring at Harry. He's staring at Harry as the lights above them tick down to one, then a huge explosion of bright white. It's like they're standing under the noon-day sun, Draco's eyes grey and clear as they gaze at Harry. The table between them is small, an easily surmounted distance. He could lean in. He could capture those lips, parted on an exhale, bright with reflected fireworks and so red. He wonders what shade they'd be after he pressed his lips to them, if he would push the blood from them with the force of his desire or if they'd plump and ripen beneath his instead. If Draco's mouth would open beneath his, and if Harry would still see the fireworks, even as his eyes closed.

The world comes rushing back to him as Harry hears his friends cheering from closer to the house. Shouts of "Happy New Year!" ringing through the garden and shattering whatever moment had been building between him and Draco. The other man leans back, face turning away as he grabs for his mug without looking.

"I'm going to get a refill," he says, still looking away as he stands. He doesn't pause to see if Harry will follow, just hurries away down the path towards the house.

As soon as the hem of his coat disappears among the greenery, Harry groans and puts his head in his hands, cursing quietly and wishing he could have that instant back. But much like fireworks, all that remains is the memory of light and the smell of sulfur and smoke it's left behind.

* * *


	19. Do You Hear What I Hear?

## XVIII

## Do You Hear What I Hear?

### 24 December 2007

* * *

"I hope you aren't taking it the wrong way," Molly said again, watching as Draco continues to stare down at her gift. "I thought you'd think they were funny."

It's a pair of mittens. They'd likely fit his hands perfectly. They certainly sit in them comfortably enough. But rather than a simple set in black wool, they're a pair of hedgehogs, spikes and button nose included. Vacant expressions somehow endearing, he runs his finger over the back of one, the fluffy bits of yarn giving way beneath his fingers.

"They're…" He really wants to say something nice. After receiving handmade gifts from Molly for this long and Draco's own fascination with Harry's knitting, he knows how much time and effort goes into them. But he really doesn't know what to say about these.

"I think you broke him, Mum," Ron says as he bounces Hugo on his hip. Rose tugs on his trousers leg, and he ruffles her hair. "If I'd known all it would take was a pair of mittens, I'd've taken up knitting when you tried to teach me as a kid."

"Up, Daddy!" Rose says, pulling harder at Ron's clothes. Sighing, he crouches down and lifts her in his other arm, both children resting on his hips. Rose giggles, and Hugo tries to eat Ron's shirt.

"I love them," Draco says unconvincingly. "Honestly."

"Try them on!" Molly says, clearly buoyed by his positive response.

"Yeah, try them on," Ron mimics, laughing even though the right shoulder of his shirt is at least sixty-seven percent drool.

Draco does as he's told and slides first one hedgehog on, then another. It's a distinctly disturbing motion, since it means he has to shove his hand up what would be the arsehole of the poor creature. Molly's lined them with something soft and forgiving against his hands, and though he knows it's just wool and stuffing, he can't help but wonder what the inside of a hedgehog would feel like.

He barely holds back the shudder.

"Well?" Molly leans in. "How do they fit?"

"Perfect." He cannot wait to get these damned things off. "Absolutely perfect. They're wonderful, Molly. Really."

From the other side of the room, Draco hears someone choking. He turns just enough to see Harry out of the corner of his eye. The other man's face is red, his cheeks tight from holding back his laughter. Draco would hold up two fingers, but all Harry would see is the spines of a wooly hedgehog.

This is an outrage.

Rose squeals from her father's arms. "I wanna pet, Uncle Draco!" She reaches for him, her tiny fingers wiggling. "I wanna see!"

Sighing, Draco walks over and holds his hands out for her to inspect them. She giggles when she runs her palms over the backs of the hedgehogs. A second later, he darts one in to nuzzle at her cheek, and she squeals and wiggles away. Ron curses as he nearly drops her.

"Shite!" Hugo says happily before going back to gnawing on his father's shoulder.

"Ronald Bilius Weasley!" Hermione comes storming in from the kitchen, hands on her hips. "That was not our son's first word."

"No, of course not," Ron says.

"Shite!"

He winces. "I love you?"

"Dead." She points at him. "You are dead."

"Don't be so upset, Ron," Draco says, wiggling the hedgehog in his face before going back to tickling Rose. "He could've said fuck."

"Fuck!"

That's what breaks Harry. He erupts into huge, booming laughs, bent in half as Hermione starts chasing Ron around the room, their two children bouncing in his arms as he flees. Draco walks over to the laughing pile of idiot, hands extended. 

"Oh, Mr Potter," Draco says in a high voice, wiggling one of the mittens as if it's talking, "whatever is so funny?"

"Oh hell, Malfoy," Harry says, laughing harder. "Get away from me with those things."

Voice still raised, Draco wiggles the front of the other hedgehog. "We just want to be your friends," he makes it say before tickling at Harry's ribs with the other. "Why won't you be our friends?"

Harry snorts and starts to fall over, swatting ineffectively at Draco's hedgehogged hands. Now Draco's the one fighting back laughter. He chases after Harry, who tumbles from his seat.

Draco tumbles after him, hedgehogs wielded like weapons. "Don't run away! We just want to play!"

"Stop, stop," Harry gasps out, grabbing Draco's wrists. "I can't breathe, Malfoy. Oh my god, you've got to stop."

"It's friendship, Potter. I'd think a Gryffindor like you would appreciate that."

"I hate you," he says on another hiccoughing giggle. "You are the absolute worst."

"Don't lie, Harry," Draco says, laughing. "I'm fantastic."

Harry's hands on Draco's wrists tighten for a moment, and though his laughter dies down, his eyes lose none of their sparkle. "Yeah, maybe you are." Harry falls to lie on the ground. "You are ridiculous, though."

Draco's kneeling over Harry, his wrists caught in Harry's grip. It would be easy for him to bracket Harry's face with his hands, to lean forward and drink the laughter from his mouth. His skin would be warm and giving beneath Draco, his body hard and unyielding.

But he's wearing fucking hedgehogs as hands in the middle of Molly Weasley's front room, and this is not the place nor the time.

George rests his elbow on his mother's shoulder, clucking his tongue and shaking his head. "You're acting like unruly children, honestly. Completely out of control."

Molly turns on George, laughing. "You're having me on, aren't you?"

They quickly devolve into an argument about who's worse, Harry and Draco or George and Fred. Thinking back on all the trouble the Weasley twins got into at Hogwarts, and all of the trouble George's managed on his own, Draco doesn't expect it'll last long.

Heaving himself up with a groan, Draco nearly gets pulled back down when Harry doesn't immediately let go of Draco's wrists. For a moment, he thinks that Harry's trying to pull him back down, to pull him close, but then his fingers graze against the sensitive skin on the inside of Draco's wrists and fall to the floor. Harry throws his arms over his head, stretching them over his head so that his jumper pulls up at the waist. When he exhales, it's long and happy.

"Merry Christmas, Malfoy."

* * *

Later, while he's outside sneaking a smoke—Molly caught him a few years earlier and had reamed him a new one about _disgusting habits_ and _what would your mother think_ —Draco sticks his free hand into his pocket to feel the soft top of the hedgehogs. They're entirely impractical and still a bit disturbing if he thinks about them too carefully, but now they're tangled with the memory of Harry laughing so hard he can't breathe, and Draco has to admit that he loves the things.

Just a bit.

* * *


	20. Deck the Halls

## XIX

## Deck the Halls

### 20 December 2008

* * *

Harry's up to his elbows in a turkey when he hears the Floo roar. Leaning back so he can make out the far corner of the front room, all he sees is fading green light.

"I'm in the kitchen!" he yells, leaning forward to finish rubbing butter under the skin of the bird.

Draco walks into sight, then raises his eyebrows at Harry. "I hope you bought it dinner first."

"It _is_ dinner."

"That's a bit macabre, Potter." Draco squeezes past and heads for the wine breathing on the counter. "It's generally bad form to feed your date to themselves."

"How does this always happen with our conversations?" Harry asks, more to himself than to Draco. "We start out talking about completely normal things, and then we end up here."

"I like to keep you on your toes." Draco pours a glass of wine, then swirls it around the glass. The Merlot casts a lovely ruby light, and when Draco puts his nose into the glass and breathes in, his eyebrows raise. "This is nice, Potter." He sips carefully and makes a pleasantly surprised sound. "Very nice."

"Thought you'd like that one. I think Geoffry was going to throw me from the shop, the way I kept bothering him about suggestions."

Draco laughs, then takes another sip. "You went to the wine store for me? Mr Potter, be still my heart."

"Someone's got to treat you right," Harry says, pulling his hands from the bird. "How the hell am I supposed to get this cleaned off?"

Draco laughs, then offers his glass to Harry. "Here, give it a taste."

There's a small smudge on the lip of the glass where Draco's mouth rested. It's not the bit that Draco's offering now, and Harry is both disgusted and embarrassed with himself that he desperately wishes it was. Instead, he lets Draco put the clean rim of the glass against Harry's lips and tilt the delicate glassware up until he can taste the wine.

It's low and mellow with hints of oak and a slightly dry finish. Harry lets the flavour settle in his mouth before he swallows, savouring it before it fades. "That is good."

"Isn't it?" Draco sets his glass down, then walks over to the sink and turns on the water. "Do you need me to get you soap as well?"

Harry bumps Draco out of the way with his hip, then washes the butter and herbs from his hands. "Thank you. Now, get out of my kitchen while I get this turkey started."

"Fine, Potter. I can tell when I'm not wanted."

Draco picks up his glass of wine, then snatches the bottle before disappearing out of the kitchen.

"Thief!" Harry yells after him, laughing. "Don't think I won't remember that next time we're at yours!"

"Yelling between rooms is uncouth, Potter," Draco shouts back. "It's best to have conversations face-to-face, rather than across a house."

"Prat!"

It doesn't take long for Harry to finish dressing the turkey. After tenting it with some aluminium foil, he pops it into the oven, washes his hands, and dries them on a kitchen towel. After securing his own wine glass, he joins Draco in the front room.

Draco's taken his shoes off and has his legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. His wine glass, almost empty already, is next to him on the side table where Harry's novel used to be. Said novel is in Draco's hands, and he's flipping to the next page, eyes locked on the words.

"That's a good one," Harry says after pouring himself his own glass of wine and settling on the couch. "You'll love the twist."

"If you ruin this one for me, Harry, I swear…"

Harry grins. "No spoilers, I promise."

"When are the Granger-Weasleys arriving?" Draco asks after another page and his final swallow of his wine.

Harry casts a wandless _Tempus_ and sighs. "Maybe another fifteen minutes?"

"That's perfect." Draco settles deeper into the chair and goes back to reading.

Harry, meanwhile, sets himself to the task of drinking his wine and watching Draco. Harry isn't sure how Draco's able to do it, but once he starts reading, he loses track of the world around him. It's a bit annoying whenever Harry wants Draco's attention, but when he's like this, quiet and focused on his book, it means that Harry can gaze like the besotted idiot he is.

And he is an idiot. There was a time when Harry wasn't willing to admit it, not even to himself, but he's stupid about Draco Malfoy, has likely been stupid over him his entire adult life. It's not just the man's beauty, which is undeniable. He's pale, glittering porcelain. He's sharp and brutal silver. He's sunlight through glass, bright enough to blind.

But he's more than that. He's smart and painfully funny. He makes Harry laugh and think, makes him reconsider things he's never questioned before. There's a quiet intensity to him that draws Harry in like a moth to a flame. He could listen to Draco talk all day and not grow tired of it. He wants to bask in it, and he's stunned, every day, that he's this desperate for the man after he hated him so much when they were younger.

And he _wants_. His bones ache with it. Desire is too simple a word for the way he feels. He's desired before, but it was nothing like this. The way he wants Draco is in his blood, in his body. It pulses through him in time with his heart. He wants to put his hands on Draco's body, to learn the planes and dips of it. Wants to map it all with his fingers and mouth, to taste the places where only Draco's own hands have touched before. Harry wonders what the hollow of Draco's throat tastes like, if he could feel the pulse of Draco's heart in the thin skin over his hips, if he could make Draco fall apart with only the gentle brush of Harry's fingers against his cock.

He needs to stop thinking like this. He's getting half-hard in his trousers, and though Draco isn't paying Harry any attention, he knows it's going to be difficult to explain why Harry's got an erection when there’s only one possible reason.

Christ, he's got to do something about this. It's long past time, and if Harry keeps trying to pretend like he isn't head over heels in love with Draco, it's only going to hurt their friendship in the long run. Eventually, something's going to break, and Harry would rather it be his heart than them.

* * *

Draco brings a yule log with him to Christmas dinner, and Harry wishes he didn't find it so damned charming. He never brings desserts unless asked, and Molly would never ask for something this extravagant. It's a beautiful thing, dusted with glittering gold and dotted with sugared berries. The icing looks like rough wood that's been covered by frost, tiny piles of icing sugar along the sides like snow banks in the forest. Molly gasps when she sees it, her wrinkled hands pressed over her lips.

"Draco!" She looks like she's either going to cry or hit him. "You shouldn't have."

Harry smiles as Draco sets the yule log down on the table and pulls her into a hug. "Mrs Weasley, you have welcomed me into your home over and over again. The least I can do is help you get fat."

"Oh, stop," she says, laughing as she slaps at his shoulder before drawing him tighter. "What am I supposed to do with you, Draco Malfoy?"

"No idea," he says as he steps away. "I'm sure you'll figure something out."

* * *

Dinner is, as always, too much. They're all stuffed. The kids are already in bed, with Ron passed out on the couch, Hermione curled into his side as she reads quietly. Molly is knitting by the tree, and Harry's just finished another row on his latest pair of socks. It's the only reason he notices Draco sneaking outside. Hurriedly setting his needles down, Harry excuses himself. Molly doesn't look up, just makes a quiet acknowledgement before looking at her pattern, then back to her shawl.

Arthur and George are at the kitchen table when Harry walks past them. George waves, but goes back into a discussion on Muggle mechanics with his father.

The cold is like a punch to the face when Harry steps outside. He's got a heavy Aran jumper on, and he quickly casts a warming charm. It takes the edge off, and as he stuffs his hands under his armpits, he looks around for Draco.

He's got himself settled in the far back corner of the garden where the light from the house barely touches him. All Harry can make out at first is the brightly lit end of Draco's cigarette, flaring for a moment as he inhales, then dimming. As his eyes adjust to the dark, though, Draco becomes clearer, like a star appearing from behind a cloud.

"That stuff's awful for you," Harry says as he draws close enough for Draco to see him. Draco's got his great coat's collar pulled up around his neck, his black turtleneck peeking through the gap at the front. 

Eyebrow raised, Draco takes another deep draw. The tips of his fingers are already tinged red from the cold. "I've read the literature, Potter. As far as I'm aware, wix don't get cancer."

"That we've found yet," Harry replies. "You could be the first."

"Fame and infamy, just waiting around the corner."

Harry laughs, then holds a hand out. "Let me have a puff."

"Really?" Draco holds the cigarette out, then pulls it back slightly when Harry reaches for it. "You're sure?"

"You seem to like it so much. Might as well give it a try."

"Okay, Potter." Draco hands it over, making sure to keep the burning end away from Harry's fingers as he takes it. "But if you steal my spotlight, I'll be very cross with you."

"I'm sure."

Harry puts the filter between his lips and is surprised to find it slightly damp. It's not wet, but there's a hint of moisture, a reminder of Draco's lips against paper and cotton. Harry closes his lips around the tip and inhales carefully. At first, there's nothing, but then smoke curls into his mouth and lungs. It's acrid and tastes like burnt leaves and tar. He can feel it clinging to the microscopic airways in his chest, coating them with nicotine and smoke. There's a rush that comes with it, a tingle in his bloodstream that's not that different from the thrill he gets when he sees Draco. But his body is starting to ache, and it's not because of how beautiful Draco looks limned in moonlight. Exhaling slowly, Harry watches the smoke escape from his mouth to curl away into the night like a cloud.

"Well?" Draco asks, his lips parted. "What do you think?"

Harry coughs. And he coughs again. Suddenly gasping for breath, he can't stop his lungs from spasming, and he hurriedly passes the cigarette back to Draco before bending at the waist to cough, harder and harder, into the snow-crusted grass.

Draco cackles. "Merlin, Potter. It's not that bad."

"It bloody well is." Harry spits, then stands up. "How in the world can you stand it?"

Shrugging, Draco takes a drag from the cigarette, all calm assuredness and with no signs of making an arse out of himself by losing a vital organ in Molly Weasley's garden. "It relaxes me. Keeps my hands busy."

"Well. You've nothing to worry about me stealing your spot on the cover of the _British Journal of Medicine_."

Smoke twists from his mouth as Draco grins. "Duly noted." Breathing out the rest, he frowns at Harry. "Why'd you come out here?"

"I wanted to talk to you, actually." Harry swallows and tastes burnt tobacco. His hands, previously cold, are burning hot, palms coated with sweat. "I need to talk to you."

Draco's back straightens, his whole body going rigid at Harry's tone. "Is everything okay?"

"Yes, it's fine." Harry wants to bite his tongue. "I mean, it's not _fine_ , but no one's hurt or dying, and I'm not about to go on some kind of dangerous mission or anything. I just… There are some things I've been meaning to say. To you. For a long time." He curses. "I'm shit at this, I'm sorry."

Draco drops his cigarette and presses it into the ground with his toe. "No, you're doing fine."

"We've known each other for a long time, yeah? Almost twenty years now." Christ, that makes him feel old. "And when we first met, I hated you."

"I'm not sure I like where this conversation is going, Potter."

"Just… Wait, okay? Listen?" At Draco's hesitant nod, he continues. "I hated you, but I don't think I hated _you_ , if that makes any sense. I hated the _idea_ of you. You were this perfect embodiment of the people who'd taken my family from me, who'd forced me to be abandoned on my aunt and uncle's front step. You were rude and snippy and so bloody perfectly put together, and it was easy to dislike you from the start. It was simple." He lets out a shuddering breath. "But once the war ended, and Voldemort was gone, and I had time to _think_ … It wasn't fair, hating you like that. It was easy, but it wasn't the right thing to do. 

"And so I started watching you, once I knew you were working at the Ministry. Nothing untowards, you prat, stop looking at me like that. I just… I kept an eye on you is all. And you looked… I dunno, sad? Abandoned? I don't really remember, but you were different, and I wondered…"

Harry swallows. "And then you helped me with that letter, and you saved me from that damned party, and I thought we could be friends."

"Are we not?"

"We are," Harry says, voice firm and certain. "I think you might be my best friend, though if you tell Ron that, I'll hex you from here to next Sunday."

It makes Draco duck his head and laugh, which eases some of the ache in Harry's chest.

"But it's more than that," he says, his throat growing tight with emotion and fear. "If we were just friends, and that was everything, I wouldn't… This wouldn't terrify me. But somewhere between now and then, I… God, I'm making a right mess of this."

"You're not." Draco takes his hand gently, and though it's only a brush of Draco's fingers against Harry's palm, it burns. "You're really not."

"I care about you. I care _for_ you. And it's not just as friends. I want…" Harry swallows because that one verb contains so much of how he's feeling. Part of him wonders if it's enough, though he knows he can't leave it there. "I want to be more than friends. But I understand if that's not what you want. I won't push for more if you don't want it, and we can stay just friends, but I couldn't… it was killing me to not tell you, and I had to say something. Before it was too late."

Draco squeezes Harry's hand, then lets go.

* * *


	21. Baby, It's Cold Outside

## XX

## Baby, It's Cold Outside

### 25 December 2008

* * *

Draco lets Harry's hand drop, and he can tell the moment Harry takes it the wrong way, the idiot.

"No, you moron," Draco says before stepping forward to place his hand on Harry's waist. The hem of his jumper is _right there_ , and Draco nearly gives into the urge to slip his fingers underneath the thick wool to touch skin. He knows his hands are cold, though, so he just squeezes instead, drawing Harry closer.

Harry lets out a shaky breath. It clouds the air between them like cigarette smoke, and Draco swears he can smell burning tobacco. A moment later, flakes of snow start to fall around them. They land on Harry's hair, then melt into the black mass. Draco reaches up with his other hand to push it from Harry's eyes.

"You do realise that I've been half in love with you since we were children, yes?"

Harry startles beneath Draco's hand. "Don't take the piss, Malfoy."

"I'm not." He drags Harry closer, and the other man stumbles a step forward. Draco presses his hand to Harry's cheek, rests his thumb in the corner of Harry's eye, just under the arm of his glasses. "You had to ruin it, of course. I was happily in denial about the whole thing until you pulled me from that fire and testified for me in front of the Wizengamot. How can one be expected to respond to that kind of gallantry? It's criminal."

Harry leans into Draco's touch, snow dotting his glasses. "You're serious."

"Deathly so." Draco drags his thumb down to the corner of Harry's mouth, lingers there before cupping his jaw. "It's been years, Harry, that I've wanted you."

"You didn't… I didn't know." Harry places his hand over Draco's, drags it to his mouth. The brush of his lips against Draco's palm has him inhaling on a hiss. "Are you sure?"

Draco can't help but laugh. "You're asking me if I'm sure I have feelings for you immediately after you confessed your own? Do you not want this to be reciprocated?"

"Maybe," Harry says, and Draco can feel the words against his hand. "I don't know what to think right now. I didn't… I never."

"Harry." Draco steps forward. His foot slots in between Harry's, their chests nearly touching. "I can't kiss you if you don't shut up."

"Oh." Harry swallows, then licks his lips. "I'd better shut up, then."

"You should."

* * *


	22. I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus

## XXI

## I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus

### 25 December 2008

* * *

Harry's kissed people before. He's kissed a lot of people, if he's going to be honest about it, and he thinks he should be because he's about to kiss Draco bloody Malfoy. Harry is familiar with the mechanics of kissing. He knows how to slot his lips against someone else's, how to find the right angle to bring his mouth as close to theirs as possible. He knows ways to coax out sighs and drag out moans, where to press his lips and teeth to maximum effect. It makes him think he's prepared for the experience of kissing Draco, but then Draco leans down and Harry leans up, and everything he's ever known about kissing is lost in the simple, overwhelming heat of them, finally, together.

The first thing he notices is the hint of tobacco on Draco's lips. It's quickly replaced by warmth and softness, and Draco's fingers tangling in Harry's hair to pull him closer. His lips part when Draco pulls a bit too hard, and Draco takes the opportunity to trail his tongue along the barely open seam of Harry's mouth. Shivers race through him at that tentative hint of a touch, and Draco takes advantage to deepen the kiss. It steals a groan from Harry, and his hands are shaking as they grab onto Draco like he's a life jacket and Harry's about to drown.

And he is drowning. He's lost in the overwhelming feel of Draco's body pressed against his, their lips coming together and pulling apart, only to come together again. He's tangled his hands in Draco's great coat, but the rough wool isn't what he wants to touch. Scrabbling for the buttons on the front, he gets first one, then another button undone and slips his hands beneath the fabric. It's so warm inside, the interior of the coat lined with silk and warming charms and beneath it, the heat of Draco's body. The hem of his shirt comes free of his waistband easily, and then Harry's got his hands on Draco's skin and the hard muscles underneath.

"Fuck," Draco curses, teeth bared against Harry's mouth. "Your hands are cold."

"Warm them up," Harry says, pressing them against Draco's sides, then lower back, dragging him closer. "Warm me up."

"Bloody hell, Potter." He kisses Harry again and again. "We need to stop."

Harry's pulse is hot and insistent, unwilling to slow. "No."

"We're in the Weasley's garden," Draco says, laughing until Harry bites at the cords of his neck. "Fuck. Harry. _Harry._ "

Draco's hands on his face are insistent, but gentle, as they pull him back. Harry's head is swimming, and Draco is smiling, the corners of his eyes crinkled as he gazes down at Harry like he's an undeserved gift, like he's something precious and delicate cradled in his hands. "I have a flat. You have a house. There are better places for this."

And fuck if he isn't right. Harry curses and takes his hands back. "You're right. Sorry. I mean, I'm not _sorry_ , but I'm sorry."

Draco shushes him, then presses a soft kiss to his lips. It's tender, a barely there touch that makes Harry start shaking all over again. "What're you doing after this?"

Harry laughs, and Draco kisses him again. They lose themselves to it for another long moment, until they're both panting and when Harry presses his body against Draco's, he finds that Draco's cock is a hard line along his thigh. He drags his leg against it, making Draco curse and pull back.

"I'm not fucking you in a garden," Draco says, though Harry can't tell from his tone of voice if he's talking to Harry or to himself. "Not today, at least."

Harry shivers. "You're awful."

"You're the one who's going to make me sit through saying goodbye to Molly Weasley with an erection."

"I could help you with that."

"No garden sex, Potter." Draco kisses his forehead, then steps back. "You look… Fuck. Try to make yourself presentable. If we don't make our excuses and get out of here soon, I may have to change my mind."

Harry wonders if the frostbite would be worth it, and judging by the heat in Draco's gaze and the way his lips are swollen and red, he thinks it would be. But Draco tidies his hair and tucks his shirt back in. Harry thinks he might combust when Draco grabs his cock, easy as you please, and settles the hard length of it in the crease between his hip and his leg, hiding his erection like it's nothing.

"Fucking fuck," Harry breathes, eyes locked on the crease in Draco's trousers disguising his prick. "You can't just _do_ that."

"You probably should," Draco says, and his eyes are hungry and hot as they watch Harry's hands, then his tented trousers. "You're indecent."

His dick twitches, and with another whispered curse, he adjusts himself. Draco presses the palm of his hand against himself, and they both stand there, eyes locked, while they wait to catch their breath.

Harry isn't entirely sure how they make it back into the house without touching. Draco keeps his hands in his pockets, and Harry keeps his balled up into fists at his sides, but it's still a struggle to not reach out and touch the man he's wanted for so long.

Arthur and George are no longer in the kitchen, and when Harry and Draco step into the front room, Ron and Hermione are gone, too. It's just Molly, knitting quietly as the fire dies down.

"Everyone else has gone up to bed," she says before setting her work down. "I thought I'd stay up to see you two off."

"Thank you, Molly," Harry says, meaning it in so many ways.

Draco steps towards the fire. "It was lovely, as always." As he reaches for the Floo powder, Molly makes an unhappy sound.

"About the Floo," she says as she stands. "It's been a bit… off since George left. I'm not entirely sure what the boy did to it, but I think you'd be better off Apparating back to London. I know it's a bit of a jump, though, so if you'd rather stay the night and leave tomorrow after we get it fixed, I understand."

"That's very kind of you," Draco says before Harry can protest, "but I've got some things I need to get taken care of in the morning. Potter, would you like a Side-Along?"

Fighting back a grin, Harry nods. "That would be great."

"Have a lovely evening, boys," Molly says as she walks them to the front door. "I'll owl your gifts to you in the morning."

"Good night, Molly," Harry says as he does his best to not shove Draco out the door before him. Running would be rude.

As soon as the door shuts, Harry does what he's been wanting to do since they stopped touching in the garden and loops his arm through Draco's. Sneaking his fingers along the length of Draco's sleeve, he slips his hand into Draco's pocket where Draco's own hand is resting. Their fingers tangle together, and Harry isn't sure if it's the Apparition that sends his stomach swirling or the thrill of skin to skin.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to use the mistletoe prompt eventually.


	23. Silent Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone was wondering, this is the chapter where the fic earns its Explicit rating.

## XXII

## Silent Night

### 25 December 2008

Even though it's only moments since they spun away from the Burrow and the night is the same, with the same moon and the same Christmas lights strung across the street, London looks different. There's a warmth that was missing before, a warmth captured and held tight between his palm and Harry's. It suffuses Draco, seeps into his bones until it's one with the marrow, lives in the center of his chest like a throbbing, beating thing. 

Part of him wants to wrench it out as if it were a weed. He can already feel it growing deeper with every step they take down the brightly lit road. But Harry's hand clings to his, both of them still nestled in his pocket, and Draco can't bear the thought of the ruin pulling his hand away would leave behind. There would still be pieces of Harry clinging to him, like dirt among the roots. He might as well keep the thing whole and lovely and _his_.

Harry hasn't said a word since Draco Apparated away to London. He's not even sure where they're going. He'd aimed for the central Apparition Point near the Ministry. He knows that Harry lives somewhat nearby, and Draco's flat is within walking distance—one cigarette smoked between his doorstep and Whitehall—but he isn't sure if they're going to Harry's or to his, and though he'd like to know where they're wandering, he doesn't want to break the silence and ask.

The night is crystalline, sharp and shining. He can't stop looking at Harry, can't stop himself from cataloguing the way he's glancing at storefronts and houses, all decorated in lights and pine boughs that make his eyes glitter an even brighter shade of green. And Harry's hand— that gorgeous, calloused hand that Draco has seen wrapped around wands and cups of tea and never anything of Draco's— is wrapped around his hand now, not too tight, not too loose, just the perfect amount of pressure, and with no signs of letting go.

Harry _cares_ about Draco. He _wants_ him. He was willing to let Draco shag him in the middle of a bloody garden while gnomes likely watched from the bushes. It's a gift, this knowledge, and it's going to drive him mad.

"As lovely as this is," he finally says, and his voice is rough and deep, "I would very much like to find somewhere private. Preferably with a bed."

Harry looks up at him, surprise written across his face. Draco's heart clenches.

"If you'd like." He can't breathe. "If you haven't changed your mind."

"No." Harry says it firmly and follows it with a tight squeeze of his hand around Draco's. "Absolutely not. My mind is exactly the same as it was five minutes ago. Hell, how it was five _years_ ago. I just thought we were going to yours."

"Ah." Draco's blushing, and he hates that he knows he is. "I wasn't sure where we were going."

"We can go to mine, if you'd rather?" Harry's smile is slow and molten. "My bed is bigger."

Draco's not going to be able to walk another block at the rate this is going. His cock doesn't seem to recognise that being half-hard in well-tailored trousers is a great way to become chaffed. "That's fine, but would you mind if we Apparated there instead of walking?"

"No, that's okay." He looks over Draco's shoulder to the lights above them. "I just thought it was nice, walking like this. With the lights."

It's lovely, but Draco's anxious for something more than _nice_. The smile on Harry's face and the way his eyes dance with amusement make Draco stop from saying anything other than, "You're right, it is."

Harry's place isn't too much farther, thank Merlin, and as it appears from between the two Muggle townhouses on either side of it, Draco lets Harry lead the way up the stairs. It's the first time their hands slip apart, and Draco's ashamed at how badly he wants to reach after Harry, even though it's only seconds and a few steps between them. Before Harry can grab the doorknob, Draco presses him against the door, burying his nose in the nape of Harry's neck and inhaling as his hands trail around Harry's sides to rest over his lower abdomen.

"You know the bed is on the other side of that door," Harry says, voice trembling, body firm but yielding beneath Draco's weight. When Draco pushes his hips against the curve of Harry's arse, he grinds back. It steals the breath of Draco's lungs in a sharp hiss, and Harry gasps, "Draco."

He kisses the nape of Harry's neck, lets his breath tickle across the fine hairs there. He watches as they stand on end and goose pimples travel down Harry's neck to disappear under his collar. "Harry," he says calmly, though his heart is racing.

"You're not going to like this," Harry says a moment before the door opens beneath him and they both stumble through. 

Harry's laughing as he falls, and Draco lands on top of him, his hands hitting the wood floor with enough force to bruise. Something about Draco's expression must be hysterical, because Harry starts laughing harder. He grabs at his stomach, eyes shut as he cackles like a lunatic. Though Draco doesn't want to, he finds himself smiling then chuckling. He lets himself fall forward, resting his weight on his forearms, and his head on Harry's shoulder as he continues to laugh. He breathes in the warmth of Harry's skin, the perfume of his body trapped in the curve where his neck meets his shoulder.

Harry's fingers in Draco's hair are a surprise, as is the still laughing kiss pressed to the side of Draco's face. "Sorry," Harry says as Draco lifts his head. "I'm just happy."

Draco can't say anything to that, so he kisses Harry instead. His laughter disappears, replaced by a sigh that Draco drinks down. It's not as frenzied as their kiss at the Burrow, but it still makes Draco's heart race. But now it's anticipation, rather than surprise, that's making him lose focus on the world around them.

Harry tilts Draco's head the way he wants, then deepens the kiss. Bodies aligned together, Draco can feel Harry getting hard against his hip. He grinds into it, hips moving as slow and drugging as the kiss, and bites back a whine when Harry lifts his hips into the motion. They lay on the floor like that, tangled and losing themselves to the quickly building passion. Harry's hands trail down Draco's face and neck, and he starts pulling at Draco's coat.

"Off," he pants, fighting with the heavy wool. "Get this fucking thing off."

Draco laughs and sits up, slipping free of the garment before he throws it somewhere in the vicinity of Harry's front room. The door is still open and Draco wandlessly closes it. He feels Harry shiver beneath him, and Draco turns back to him, grinning.

"Like that, Potter?"

"Shut up," Harry says, though he's reaching for Draco, pulling him back down to the floor, rolling with him so that Draco's back is pressed against the floorboards and Harry's pressed against his front. He likes the weight along his front and hips, the ache of his spine against the wood. Groaning, he takes Harry's mouth again and again, lets himself be covered by skin-warmed fabric and the muscles beneath it.

Harry's mouth wanders, nipping along the line of Draco's jaw and the muscled cords of his neck. His tongue is hot and insistent against Draco's Adam's apple, and when Draco swallows, it moves against Harry's lips and teeth. Slowly, he moves lower, his mouth so hot against Draco's skin he thinks he's been branded. The thought of Harry's mouth leaving marks on his skin shouldn't be as erotic as it is, but Draco can't help himself, can't help wanting to be owned. 

He's wanted to be Harry's for so long.

Before he can process the thought, though, Harry's got his tongue against the skin of Draco's lower stomach, and all Draco can do is curse and try not to come.

"Fuck," he hisses, his hands scrabbling for Harry's hair and holding on tight. "Fuck, Harry, what…"

"I want to taste you," Harry says as he pushes Draco's shirt further up his stomach. His tentative touch against Draco's waistband leaves him shivering. "Please."

"Gods." Draco reaches for his belt, and the two of them work his trousers open. "I don't know why you expected me to say anything but yes to that."

Harry laughs as he pulls Draco's pants down over his cock. Harry’s joyous exhalation against Draco’s fever-hot skin is a welcome torture, made only worse and better when Harry presses first one kiss, then another, against Draco's hard length. 

Body aching, Draco opens his eyes and looks down to see Harry crouched between Draco's knees, his eyes like black discs rimmed with verdigris. His lips are red and swollen, glistening with saliva, smiling and parted. As Draco watches, Harry's tongue darts out to drag against Draco's slit. A thread of precome glints between them, and then Harry leans forward to capture the head in his mouth, and Draco can't breathe.

It's all heat and pressure, the slow and steady drag of lips against skin. Harry's hands press hard against Draco's hips, keeping him pinned to the floor as Harry does his level best to ruin Draco's life with his mouth. Fuck, he wants to thrust up into that heat, to feel Harry swallow and choke around Draco's cock, but he can't move. It somehow makes it better, to be forced to accept this thing he never thought he'd have, this thing he still doesn't believe he deserves. He's owned by this, and he's going to break apart, wrecked and ruined and so fucking happy.

"Harry." Draco can't stop saying his name. "Harry, please. Fuck."

There's a wet pop as Harry pulls back. "Tell me what you need."

"I don't…" Draco swallows. "You. Just you."

"Tell me, Draco." A soft kiss against his hip bone. "Let me give you what you want."

"I want you"—Draco thrusts into the cold, empty air—"I want you to fuck me. Please, Harry."

A moment later, Harry's mouth is hot and insistent against Draco's, and he can taste himself on Harry's tongue. Harry's trousers are still done up, and though it's rough when Draco thrusts against them, he can feel the hot, hard length of Harry's cock through them, and it's worth a bit of discomfort for the punched out groan that stumbles from Harry's mouth.

Fabric rustles as they fight free of their clothes. Draco's still got his Oxfords on, and the damned things won't come off. Trousers tangled around his ankles, cursing, he sits up and nearly knocks into Harry, who's got his jumper half over his head. His glasses go flying along with the white wool, and Draco stills at the sight of Harry in just his trousers, cock clearly visible against the zip, shirtless and with his hair in disarray and his mouth curved into a smile.

"This is unfair," Draco says before he touches the hard planes of Harry's chest. "Unconscionable. An offense."

Harry glances down, then frowns up at Draco. "What?"

"You're too fit." He trails his fingers down Harry's washboard stomach, lets them settle in the deep vee of his hip. "Your body is criminal."

"Look who's talking," Harry says before ripping Draco's shirt open. Buttons go flying, and, horrified, Draco feels himself grow impossibly harder.

"That was bespoke," he says breathlessly. "Those buttons were mother of pearl."

"I'll buy you another one. Shut up and come here."

"My shoes—"

Harry doesn't seem to care that they're still half dressed, because he launches himself at Draco like a starving man. Laughing, Draco lets himself be ravished while Harry's fingers card through his hair, gentle and insistent.

"Your shoes are still on," Harry says when he pulls back, and if his legs weren't still tangled up, Draco would kick the man.

"Which I tried to tell you earlier."

"Prat."

Insults should not be endearments, but Draco's chest warms anyway. That heat only deepens when Harry kneels by Draco's feet and carefully unties his laces, easing his feet from the shoes before Harry sets them carefully to the side. Slowly, he pulls Draco's socks off, smiling as he sets them aside. "I made those," he says before he starts to pull Draco's trousers off.

"You did."

"They look mended."

"They are."

Draco's naked before Harry, and not just because his clothes are finally gone. His heart is wide open and bloody, beating slightly out of tempo as he waits for whatever Harry's going to say next.

"I'll make you more." He kisses Draco's instep, then his ankle. "However many you need." Calf, the inside of Draco's knee, the thin skin over the racing pulse in his inner thigh. "Until you don't need them anymore."

All Draco is is need. "Harry," he chokes out. He would reach for the man, but Draco's holding onto the floor because he's afraid he's going to fly away. 

Harry presses one last kiss to Draco's breast bone, then sits up and starts to unbutton his trousers. Draco's panting with each careful movement of Harry's fingers, as they slip the button from the hole, as they ease the metal zip down so that the front of his trousers gape open around the insistent press of his prick against Harry's indecent pants. They're skin tight and black, and when Draco leans up on one arm so he can touch them, they're silky against his fingers and damp with sweat. He slips his fingertips under the waistband and pulls them down. Harry helps him, and as his cock bounces free, Draco curses and nearly comes.

Eyes slamming shut as he fights for control, he's overly aware of the sounds of Harry finishing undressing and the tender touch to Draco's raised knee.

"You alright there, Malfoy?"

"Shut up. Stop being so bloody hot."

Laughter against his leg, a kiss, then arms wrapped under the bend of his knee as he's dragged forward. Eyes snapping open, he curses as Harry settles Draco's arse against his thighs.

"If this is too much," he says, looking far too smug, "just tell me to stop."

"Can't tell you to bloody stop if you don't start," Draco says, and Harry laughs before he swallows Draco's cock down again. When Draco feels it hit the back of Harry's throat, he yelps, then grabs at Harry's hair. "Stop, stop! Shit, Harry, you've made your bloody point."

The laughter around his cock nearly does him in, and Draco frantically runs through potions formulas and the five core elements of Dark magic and anything else he can think of that isn't pleasure and Harry and _finally_.

"I've still got to prep you," Harry says, voice a little rough. "Are you sure you'll make it?"

"If you don't get your cock in me in the next five minutes, Potter, I am going to take things into my own hands, and then we won't have to worry about prep."

Harry laughs and kisses Draco's knee again. "Next time. I think I'd like to see that."

Draco's head hits the floorboards hard enough to sting. "Damn it, Harry. You've got to stop saying things like that."

Harry hums quietly, then presses one of his fingers against Draco's hole. "Yeah, I think no."

His fingertip breaches Draco's asshole, dry and burning, but oh, so good. Draco gasps, then arches into it, desperate for more. Harry whispers _Lubrico_ against Draco's thigh, and the rest of his finger slides in easily. He drives it in and out of Draco's body with a slow, languorous pace that has him cursing and sweating against the floor, his knees parted and back arched.

Draco almost doesn't notice the second finger, but the third has him gasping at the sting.

"Okay?" Harry asks, stopping and giving Draco a moment to catch his breath.

Draco bears down on Harry's fingers and groans as the stretch sings through his blood. "Yes."

"You're gorgeous," Harry says before corkscrewing his fingers deeper. They brush against Draco's prostate, and his body lights up. "I need…"

"Yes. _Yes._ " Draco feels empty when Harry's fingers leave his body, but then it's replaced by the heat of his cock, and the slight pressure as he presses against Draco's hole. "Please."

Harry eases in, and it burns and feels incredible and Draco can't breathe, can't _think_. His body is filled with heat and pleasure, and Harry kisses him like there's nothing in the world he wants to do more than put his mouth on Draco's.

"Draco." He murmurs it against Draco's mouth, in his ear, in the hollow of his throat. "Oh, Draco."

Harry's thrusts into Draco’s body are jerking and halted, an inelegant testament to his own growing passion. Draco's there with him, his hands slipping against the sweat-slickened skin of Harry's back, trying to pull him closer, even though there's no space between the two of them.

"I'm going…" Harry groans, his hips thrusting forward. "Fuck, Draco."

"Yes," Draco says as he slips a hand between their bodies to grab frantically at his cock. "Me, too. Please, I want you to. With me, Harry. With me."

"Fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck._ "

Harry groans, hips stuttering forward, his body shaking and shivering as he comes. Draco can feel it filling him, can feel some of Harry's come leaking from him as Harry thrusts deeper and deeper. It's filthy and fucking amazing, and then Draco's coming, too. It's hot and heavy between his fingers, slicking Harry's stomach, dripping down between them. When Harry falls forward onto his arms, breathing heavily against Draco's neck and shoulder, Draco can barely squeeze his hand from between their bodies.

With his clean hand, he runs his fingers through Harry's hair, body wracked with shivers of pleasure. Harry kisses at Draco's pulse, soft, tender things that overwhelm Draco almost as much as the orgasm had.

"Damn it," Harry says with a quiet laugh. "I didn't want our first time to be on my bloody floor."

"Worth it." Draco groans. "My back is going to be a nightmare later."

"I'll rub it. I've got some ointment I use after field exercises. It's great for bruises."

Harry lifts his head and smiles down at Draco before kissing him once, quick and easy, like they've been doing this for years rather than minutes. There are Muggle-style fairy lights in the living room, small winking specks of multicolored light that Draco had missed before. It makes Harry look like something out of a myth, a beautiful man born of gods rather than mortals.

Heart clenching as Draco draws him back down for one more kiss, all he can think is _finally_ and _mine_ and _love_.

* * *


	24. Winter Wonderland

## XXIII

## Winter Wonderland

### 25 December 2008

* * *

Harry can't help but feel anything but charmed amusement as Draco groans and rolls off of the floor beneath him. He's gloriously unabashed about his nakedness. The lights from the front room glint off of his porcelain skin, a kaleidoscope of color across satin that Harry already aches to touch again. Draco stretches as he stands, his lower stomach still coated in come and his back already showing signs of bruises, all of it beautiful and making Harry want again.

He reaches out to touch the knobs of Draco's spine, a gentle caress that makes Draco shiver. The skin beneath his fingers is already staining blue, and he feels a twinge of guilt that he fucked Draco on the floor, rather than the soft bed upstairs, or not even on the plush rug only a few feet away from where they'd been together.

"What are you doing?" Draco asks, looking back at Harry as he drags his hand along Draco's spine again.

"Apologizing," Harry responds before casting a wordless, wandless healing charm. The skin beneath his fingers blooms dark purple, then fades to yellow-green, then finishes pale and unmarked.

"I liked those," Draco says with a frown. "Don't heal the others."

Getting to his feet, Harry pulls Draco into his arms. "Why not?"

"You're going to laugh."

"I'm not."

"You _are_." Draco touches Harry's cheek gently, as if he still can't believe he has the right to. "If you must know, it's because I'll be able to remember this later. If…"

"There's no if, Draco," Harry says before pulling him closer. His prick twitches hopefully as it presses against Draco's hip, but Harry fights against the sharp twist of want. "You're mine, if you want to be."

"I do." He rests his head on Harry's shoulder, grey eyes closing. He's a few inches taller than Harry is, so it makes his back bend a bit awkwardly, but if he's uncomfortable, Harry can't tell. "I'm still processing that _you_ want. I didn't think…"

"I know." Harry rests his cheek against Draco's hair and kisses it softly. "C'mon, let's get cleaned up and to bed. I don't know about you, but I'm knackered."

Draco snorts out a laugh, an undignified sound that warms Harry's chest. "You're knackered. You didn't get fucked on the floor. I'm shocked I don't have splinters."

"There's always next time," Harry says, smiling. "I've got a lovely shower. Let's see if we can both fit in it."

* * *

Even though they'd washed up together, Draco's lingered in the bathroom for longer than Harry thinks it should take him to cast a breath freshening charm. Though he wants to go after the man, he also recognizes that Draco needs time to process this. For Harry, it's like a piece has slotted, finally, into place. He hadn't noticed the lack of it, too familiar with its absence to notice anything amiss, but now that it's been returned to him, he can't help but feel it like the ache of muscles after a hard workout. It hurts, but it's right that it does.

A moment later, Draco steps out of the en suite and walks to the bed. Harry pulls the blankets back for him, only for Draco to roll his eyes before he slides into the open space. Head on the pillow, his white-blond hair darkened to gold by the water, he looks at Harry as Harry draws the blankets over his body, settling them around his shoulders.

"You're a sap."

"Might be."

"Honestly, Potter, you'd think you had romantic notions swimming about in that head of yours."

"What's to say I don't?"

There's a smile hiding in the corner of Draco's mouth. "It's all of those novels, isn't it? They've put these saccharine thoughts in your head."

"Or maybe it's just you," Harry says as he shifts closer. "Maybe you draw the romantic out of me."

"Oh, Salazar," Draco says with a huff. "If this is how it's going to be between us, I'm not entirely sure I want to hang around."

"Liar." Harry slides his arm around Draco's waist and pulls him close. He doesn't resist.

Draco's lips brush against Harry's gently. "Me? Never."

"Go to sleep." Harry kisses him, then presses another to Draco's forehead. "You can be an arse, and I can be hopeless for you in the morning."

Draco's laugh gusts over Harry's collarbone. "Good night, Potter."

"Good night, Malfoy."

Though Draco falls asleep easily, Harry fights it. He's not ready to slip into unconsciousness, not when he's got Draco in his bed, warm and soft with sleep, lips parted as he breathes quietly. There's the slightest hint of a snore in his voice, something that Harry finds equally hysterical and endearing. He knows it will eventually become commonplace, then very likely annoying. He'll have to kick Draco awake in the middle of the night, pretending like it wasn't intentional and getting berated for it while he pretends to sleep.

He can't wait.

* * *


	25. A Holly Jolly Christmas

## XXIV

## A Holly Jolly Christmas

### 26 December 2008

* * *

Draco's never been much of an early riser, so he's surprised to find his eyes opening when there isn't even a sliver of sunlight peeking through the curtains. Sighing, he rolls onto his front and wraps his arms around his pillow. He keeps his eyes closed for a moment, a heartbeat of time to prepare himself for what he's about to see.

Next to him, Harry's still asleep. His hair is rumpled around his face, hanging in gentle curls over his eyes. His eyelashes are soft stains against his cheeks, and Draco has the inexplicable urge to run his fingers over them. He expects they'd be soft, like dark gossamer.

Perhaps Harry isn't the only romantic laying in this bed.

Draco shuffles closer, pulling the heavy blankets tighter around his shoulders. He's not cold—his and Harry's body heat beneath the blankets is more than comfortable—but Draco likes the feeling of being wrapped up under the bed linens, especially first thing in the morning. Normally, he'd go back to sleep, but he's going to take the opportunity to gaze like the love-struck idiot he is.

Harry's beautiful. He's just stunningly, overwhelmingly beautiful. Draco cannot believe that he's allowed to be so close to him, close enough to see the beginnings of stubble on his cheeks, to make out the creases just starting to form in the corners of his eyes and the edges of his mouth. Lines from laughter, lines that Draco wants to make deepen. He wants to map them with his fingers until he knows every single one of them, can find them in the dark. It's stupid and sentimental, but fuck it, it's dark out and Draco can be allowed some sentiment.

"You're thinking very loudly," Harry mumbles into his pillow, and Draco startles. "Can I help you with anything?"

"Not giving me a heart attack for one thing."

Harry opens his eyes, and Draco's struck by their color, like he is every time. "Good morning."

"It's not morning yet," Draco says softly. "In case you hadn't noticed, it's still dark out."

"It is."

Draco slides closer, places his arm around Harry's waist and draws him in. "Whatever shall we do?"

Harry laughs, then kisses Draco. It's slow and drugging, comfortable and easy, commonplace and uncommon at the same time. It makes his blood heat and thicken, and he groans into Harry's mouth. Prick hardening, Draco thrusts lazily against Harry's hip and smiles when he feels Harry's half-hard cock against his.

"You've got to be sore," Harry says as he runs his hand over Draco's arse, fingers barely brushing at the crack. Draco wants to arch into the touch, to encourage those fingers to delve deeper, but the man's right. As he pulls on the cheek, it sends a sharp twinge of pain that makes Draco hiss. "That's what I thought."

Draco grabs Harry's wrist as he pulls away. "We don't have to fuck, Potter. That doesn't mean we have to stop."

"What do you think I was doing?" Harry grins, then kisses Draco hard, pushing him back into the mattress and pillow. Draco lets Harry's wrist go, and he's rewarded with a firm palm and clever fingers wrapping around his cock. "I'd like to take care of you, Draco."

"Ah, fuck." Arching into Harry's confident strokes, Draco grabs his hair, tangles his fingers in the already tangled strands, and kisses him with years of pent up desire. It rips through him like a knife through paper, a sharp, twisting cut that has his hips jerking forward and his hands clenching. 

Harry's grip doesn't change, just keeps moving easily over Draco's cock. "I've imagined this," he says, as if it weren't as much of a shock as his touch. "Imagined what you would look like while I made you lose control." Though his hand keeps up its relentless assault, Harry pulls back from the kiss and trails his free hand across Draco's face, brushing his sweat-dampened hair from his brow. "I never thought you'd look this gorgeous."

"Fucking hell, Potter." Draco drags him back into the kiss. "Don't make me say it."

"You don't have to." He whispers it against Draco's mouth. "I don't expect it."

Draco can't tell if he's going to cry or come. "You should. Fuck, you should expect everything. It's nothing less than you deserve."

"I'm going to beat you to it at this rate," Harry says, laughing. "I can't be blamed for it when you keep sweet talking me like that."

"Shut up, and make me come."

Harry's still laughing when he kisses Draco, but his grip tightens and he speeds up, twisting his wrist as he reaches the head of Draco's cock. It sends sparks twisting through Draco's gut, makes his toes curl as he fights to not give into pleasure immediately. He wants to be lost in this, in the feel of Harry's body against his, of Harry's hands on his prick, of his hands tangled in Harry's hair, painfully confident in the knowledge that they're in this together, feeling the same things, even if they haven't talked about it yet. It sends lightning through his spine, heat in his gut, and he's shouting Harry's name as he comes, back arched and muscles taut.

"Fuck, Draco," Harry says, his sticky hand pressed against Draco's neck as he kisses him, hard and insistent. "You don't know what you do to me."

"Yes," Draco says as he fumbles for Harry's prick, "I do."

It only takes him a few rough jerks of his hand to make Harry spill across Draco's knuckles. They lay there, panting, foreheads pressed against each other's, as they come back to reality.

Which is when Draco notices the sticky itch on his neck.

"Potter," he says slowly, "did you get come on my neck?"

"Maybe." Harry kisses him, and Draco swats at his head. "Oh, c'mon, you got it all over my sheets."

"Your sheets. You're worried about your sheets." Draco glares. "You stop giggling, Harry Potter. You stop it right now."

Harry does not stop, but he does smear his hand in Draco's hair, eliciting a shriek that makes the windows rattle.

"You monster!" Draco says as Harry rolls from bed and takes off running. "You get your arse right back here, or so help me!"

Blankets tangled around his feet, Draco does his best to stumble quickly after Harry, who's already in the en suite and closing the door.

"I know magic, you idiot!" Draco shouts as Harry slams it closed and turns the lock. "I can cast a fucking _Alohamora_ in my sleep."

It is rather hard to do it while laughing, though.

* * *

Later, while they're curled up together on the sofa in Harry's front room, cups of tea steaming on the coffee table, Kreacher's tree tucked into the corner of the room and covered in lights, Draco stretches his feet out in front of him and sighs.

"I do love these socks," he says mournfully.

"Good. I love your feet."

"Way to make it creepy, Potter."

Harry elbows him. " _And_ your ankles, and your legs, and every other bit of you, you prat."

"Don't say it like it's an endearment."

"Fuck you, it is."

Draco twists his head to the side so he can kiss the underside of Harry's jaw. "I know."

Harry turns and runs his fingers through Draco's hair. "It's always been one, you know. Since we started with the letters."

"You're going to make me say it, aren't you?"

Harry smiles. "Only if you want to."

"If I want to." Draco glares. "You do know who I am, yes?"

"Yes. You're the man I love, even though you are a prat."

"Fuck." Draco sits up, heart racing. "Say it again."

"I love you."

He throws his leg over Harry's thighs until he's sitting in Harry's lap. "You're an idiot to."

"Don't care." Harry's hands settle on Draco's hips, holding him steady. "I still do."

"You know I do, too?"

Harry's kiss is soft and gentle. "I think I do."

"Well"—Draco sniffs—"I do. Very much."

"Good." Harry wraps his hands around Draco's neck and pulls him down for another kiss. "I'm not planning on letting you get away from me now that I've got you."

"There is one thing you do need to know," Draco says in between kisses.

"Yeah? What's that?"

"I don't work in the post office."

"What?"

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter left! Where in the world did the time go? 🎄❤


	26. All I Want For Christmas Is You

## XXV

## All I Want For Christmas Is You

### 15 December 2010

* * *

Even with his sunglasses on and his eyes closed, there's still light peeking through. Instead of the familiar black from behind his eyelids, there's a sheen of red that's persistent and too bright for him to really rest. Groaning, Harry opens his eyes, giving up on his planned nap.

He should've expected as much. It's one of the sunniest days on their trip. There's a gorgeously clear sky above that's dotted with a few picturesque clouds Harry is somewhat convinced were put there for decoration rather than due to any incoming weather. A slow, easy breeze is coming off of the ocean. Tinged with salt and mist, it sinks into his skin like a soothing touch, easing some of the burn from the heat. Because even though it's only ten in the morning, it's already blisteringly warm.

Thankfully, the cabana has enough shade to make it bearable. He's sprawled out underneath it on a low bed. The linens are lightweight cotton and wick away most of the heat, and there's a fan tucked into the rafters that helps the breeze along. Even with the quickly rising temperature, it's the perfect place to lay about all day, preferably with an iced drink and a warm body to pass the time with.

Not that he knows where either of his are right now.

"Draco!" Harry looks around, vaguely annoyed. "Where the hell did you run off to?"

A moment later, Draco's voice echoes back from inside their rented bungalow. "If you think I'm running anywhere while on my first real vacation in years, you are sorely mistaken, Potter."

"That's Malfoy-Potter to you!" Harry yells back, grinning.

"No, it isn't," Draco says as he walks through the door towards the beach and Harry.

He's holding two frozen drinks, both of them sweating in the heat of the early morning, but that's not what really catches Harry's eye. No, it's the too-tight swim trunks Draco's wearing, the fabric a blue that makes Draco's skin look crystalline. Harry can make out the flex and shift of Draco's upper thighs as he walks to the cabana, and even though they've been together for two years now, it still makes his heart race.

Though it could also be the thin band of gold on Draco's left hand that's doing it.

"Here." Draco offers one of the glasses to Harry, who takes it thankfully. "A toast."

"Rather formal, don't you think?" Harry glances down, then back up again. He's got a pair of swim trunks on, too, and nothing else. "We're a bit under-dressed."

Draco's gaze heats. "If you want to put your tuxedo back on, be my guest. I'll have as much fun taking you out of it a second time as I did the first."

Harry shifts, suddenly warm for all new reasons. "What did you want to toast to?" he asks before swallowing.

"To us," he says, raising his glass. "Two completely besotted idiots too stupid to pull their heads out of their asses long enough to figure out that exactly what they wanted was right in front of them, if only they'd take the chance."

"And to Christmas," Harry adds, laughing, "for somehow forcing the issue."

"It was all Molly's doing," Draco says darkly. "That woman knows things."

"Maybe." Harry touches his glass to Draco's. "But I think we would've gotten there eventually."

"Eventually." Draco waits for Harry to raise his glass before he takes a sip. They keep their eyes locked as they drink. Whatever Draco's made, it's sharp with citrus and mellow with alcohol. It settles, cold and easy, in Harry's stomach, and he sighs contentedly after he swallows.

"So," Draco says as he settles next to Harry on the cabana bed, "what would you like to do today?"

Harry sets his drink down in the sand, then curls closer to his husband. "I thought I'd take a swim, grill something." He places his hand on Draco's hip, trailing his thumb over the ridge of bone there. "Walk around naked until you fucked me stupid."

"We did that yesterday," Draco says. "It's a bit early in the marriage to be falling into a rut, don't you think?"

Harry leans over, and Draco rolls with the motion. Laying on his back now, he wraps his arms around Harry and pulls him down. Their skin sticks together from sweat, but Harry still snuggles closer. "So, you don't want to objectify me later?"

"I will happily objectify you all over this bungalow, Potter. It's our honeymoon, why wouldn't I?"

Laughing, Harry kisses Draco and tastes lemon and tequila. He tastes sunshine and sweat.

It tastes like happiness.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t believe it’s over! Posting this and having everyone follow along was so much fun. To everyone who commented as the story posted, thank you for putting a smile on my face every day for the last 25. ❤️❤️❤️
> 
> And for those who celebrate, Merry Christmas!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, Bella and Michelle, for being fantastic friends and helping me edit this dumb thing.
> 
> This is the softest thing I've ever written. Consider it a peace offering for all of the angst.


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